


The Lake Of Tears Affair

by lilidelafield



Series: Katiya [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 17:23:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 93,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7627261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilidelafield/pseuds/lilidelafield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya receives some devastating news which leads to a desperate mission crossing continents - and a heart-breaking decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Indisposed

There are references hidden in this tale of 'The Vodka Affair' by PJ Howard, to which I owe a debt of gratitude for being in part the inspiration for writing my own first MFU story. Naturally, I do not own any of the characters, I just allow my imagination to play with them from time to time.

THE LAKE OF TEARS AFFAIR

BY LILI DE LA FIELD

"I'm sorry Mr. Solo, but you will be handling this assignment with the assistance of Agent Mark Slate. Mr. Kuryakin is indisposed and unfit for duty for a while."

"Indisposed? Illya? Is he sick? Is he all right?"

Alexander Waverly tutted at him, but kindly.

"Mr. Solo, if Mr. Kuryakin was all right, he would not be indisposed would he? Rest assured that he will be back with us soon enough. In the meantime, you have a mission in China to complete."

Solo nodded. He wanted more than anything to rush round to Illya's to make sure that his partner was okay, then chided himself with a grin. Illya would be surprised, shocked and probably annoyed if Solo did come rushing round solicitously to fuss round him like a mother hen. Illya was a singularly healthy individual accept for his frequent propensity for catching colds, which he generally came down with at least once for every season of the year, sometimes more than once. Solo took the file and left for his office where Mark Slate would by now be waiting for him.

Although the flight to China was long and uneventful, the mission most assuredly was not. Solo found it slightly irksome to be deprived of his own partner. He and Illya had, like most partners, developed a very close working bond to the point where they seemed almost able to read one another's thoughts. Certainly they could read each other like a book and were able to combine operations almost instinctively. Now, he was finding that Mark, although perfectly able and competent, lacked Illya's instinctive responsiveness, and he found he constantly had to explain things to Mark, and give the man directions. He could not remember the last time he had had to do any of that for Illya. All the same, he was aware that this mission was not exactly a bed of roses for Mark either. His regular partner, April Dancer was currently on leave in Cincinnati, attending a family wedding. Waverly had refused her partner permission to go with her, and now Solo guessed, Mark knew why. He'd needed someone to go to China with Solo, and for once there would be no Illya available.

Mark for his part, was aware of his own shortcomings as far as the CEA was concerned. He had worked with Solo's Russian partner himself now, and he had learned through experience exactly how valuable a partner Illya would be. He himself was a very junior agent indeed compared to Solo and Kuryakin, and not nearly as experienced in the field…. or even in fighting. He recalled watching how Illya, bruised, battered and bleeding, still half groggy from the THRUSH drugs that had been forced on him and, he suspected, still in pain and shock from whatever gratuitous forms of torture he had been subjected to; had disposed of two armed guards and effected their escape from the THRUSH stronghold where they were being held. Illya was a hard act to follow, and Mark now knew it. They completed their mission without any real disasters however, and finally settled themselves side by side into their seats for the long plane journey back to the US. Once the plane was airborne, Solo looked round at Mark and gave him a grin.

"Thanks for coming along Mark. You did a good job."

Mark blinked in surprise. He had not believed he had done anything very sterling at all, and certainly this matter might have been finished a few days ago if Illya had been here instead of himself. He suppressed his urge to say all this however and blushed instead.

"Thanks Napoleon."

Napoleon may have been a wise-cracking American, but he was a sensitive soul and he was instantly aware that the junior agent had something on his mind.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah…. yeah."

Napoleon kept gazing at him until Mark found himself explaining further.

"Sorry sir, it's just that I was not aware that I had done anything very special except go charging off on my own and get myself into trouble. Rather than thanking me, I had expected you to give me a dressing down at the very least."

Solo smiled.

"You're not accustomed to these kind of assignments are you?"

"April and I are still on the baby-food variety at the moment. We'll progress as we get more experience. The last time I was on an assignment anywhere near this one was when Illya and I got captured by THRUSH. My recollection of that affair was of Illya getting all the torture and doing all the work whilst I sat around in a cosy cell for three days waiting and doing nothing to help. He even managed to get us out of there, without very much help from me."

Solo thought he could guess what was on the younger man's mind.

"Mark, one of these days you'll have to join Illya and I on a job, just as observer. You don't have to worry about being unable to follow in the great Kuryakin's footsteps. You found out a few of his strengths when you were with him. No doubt you also encountered one or two of his faults as well, right?"

"Well…"

"Let's see…. Illya, the king of taciturn sitting in a cell for three days with a junior agent he doesn't know very well….an Englishman who is known for his alacrity and his loquacious nature. I know Illya, but I can imagine how it must have been for you."

Mark stared at him, but Napoleon was grinning.

"Do you think you deserve a dressing down?"

Mark nodded reluctantly. Napoleon nodded in response.

"Very well, consider yourself reprimanded; But I still say you did a good job. You are certainly not Illya, but Illya is not you either, Mark. You have points in your favour too. Don't sell yourself short."

"Thanks."

The silence was thick. Solo sensed that his companion was still not fully convinced.

"What is it that is really on your mind?"

It was a while before Mark answered him.

"April and I always do a good job. We don't get the complex stuff just yet, but we do good. I always thought we were good at our job. That give us a year or two of experience and we could be where you two are."

"I have no doubt of that." Solo replied sincerely. Mark shook his head.

"Watching Illya at work the other week was an eye opener for me. First I learned how bad I am at reading people. I had Illya all wrong. He turned out to be the complete opposite of all my assumptions about him."

Solo chuckled.

"Don't take that hard. It took me a long time to break through that ice-cold exterior too. He has the same effect on everyone he meets."

"Then everything he did to get us out of that cell and out of the building to say nothing of…er…our adventures on the way back to HQ. Made me realize that I still have a lot to learn."

"That's why Illya is number two of section two and you're not. Illya and I had to learn it too Mark. That is why you cut your teeth on the simple jobs and every so often get sent off on a job like this with a more senior agent. Almost always it will be number One or Number two if not both. That's how we all learned. Besides, Illya is a cut above all of us. Former Russian navy officer, KGB trained, GRU…. he speaks fourteen languages at the last count…expert in engineering, mechanics, electronics, physics, music, he plays three different musical instruments that I know of, Master at several martial arts, expert in explosives…. none of us will ever quite match up to him. Most UNCLE agents are quite ordinary people like you and me. We just fumble along doing the best we can, going out on a limb from time to time, relying on our hunches, trusting our instincts, and making sure we are there to drag our partner out of whatever hole he…or she…happens to stumble into. That's what it's about for all of us Mark. Welcome to the big league!"

Solo was grinning widely, and Mark found himself grinning back. They each accepted a glass of wine from the stewardess and Solo leaned back, clearly prepared to relax properly for the first time in over a week.

"So," he asked, turning to his companion. "I can't help being curious. You said that Illya proved to be the opposite of everything you had assumed? What did you think of my partner before you saw the error of your ways?"

"Do I have to answer that?"

"No." he replied in a tone that clearly contradicted his word. Mark grinned reluctantly.

"Well, you have to admit it that on the surface, your partner comes across as a scientist and a bookworm. An intellectual and that is all. He never ever spoke unless he had to, and it was only ever one syllable; `yes; no; go; stop!'; he never seemed to crack a smile and for the life of me I couldn't think how a man like that managed to qualify for section two in the first place, never mind become number two. I couldn't for the life of me see how you managed to put up with the man. He taught me how wrong I had been to take him at face value."

Solo nodded.

"You know Mark, there's a chemical that is totally benign. Its harmless in every single way, its non-reactive regardless of what you mix it with or add it to. Non-toxic, non-corrosive…and yet you let it heat up beyond a certain temperature and it explodes with a force that could destroy half of Manhattan. That's Illya in a nutshell. He is the bookish type, he really is. He is naturally reticent and taciturn, often sulky and sullen. He reads technical journals for fun for crying out loud." Solo gave a rueful shake of his head.

"Of course he is also one of the most interesting men I have ever worked with. His skill as a sharpshooter is second to none, and his skill with explosives is such that he was made to stay on at the training facility for over a month after graduation to teach a class."

Mark smiled.

"If all the agents at UNCLE make the mistake I did in underestimating him so badly, it must be a very effective weapon against his enemies. There's nothing so useful in an enemy who relaxes his guard because he thinks you're not a threat."

Solo turned and looked Mark in the eye.

"Illya looks like a teenage librarian, but he's a master of disguise who can kill a man with his bare hands if he wants to. April your partner looks like a fashion model or a TV star, like a girl who's too pretty to be brainy as well, but she came out top in almost everything at the training facility. She's as deadly as Illya, but I'd say considerably prettier. Alexander Waverly hand-picks his people, Mark. He sees something in each of us that he can use and recruits us and trains us to use our skill to his benefit. We are all different, and we all have our own unique skills that sooner or later turn out to be invaluable. He is remarkably clever at picking out agents to pair together so that the skills they each have balance each other out."

"In other words, if one of you has a failing, the other has a particular skill to equal things out? So what is your particular skill then, sir?" Mark asked with an impudent grin. Solo saw the twinkle but pretended to be offended.

"I'm the brains and Illya is the brawn I'll have you know."

"You're the brains? And Illya with PHDs and Masters degrees? Wow, you must be a real prodigy, sir!"

Mark swallowed the last of his glass of wine and leaned back closing his eyes. Solo chuckled to himself and settled back himself for a nap.

Arriving back in New York, dropping off their luggage at home and changing their clothes after their long trip, they had to make for UNCLE HQ straight away for debriefing. Only once they had finished up their report and been in to see Mr. Waverly, was Solo free to pursue the question that had been brimming in his head for some time. Where was his partner? He and Mark had been gone for ten days, and still there was no sign that HQ had been graced with Illya's presence at any of the intervening time. Waverly was evasive at first when Solo questioned him, but Solo could see in the older man's eyes that he was nevertheless worried…. Or concerned at any rate. Finally, Waverly sighed.

"Very well Mr. Solo, I wanted to tell you before, but I needed you in China with your mind on your job. Mr. Kuryakin is not ill per se. He is as I told you before, indisposed."

"Indisposed how?" Solo persisted. "Indisposed can mean he's caught a cold, he's dying of a fever or he's having a fit of pique because someone has painted his office door the wrong colour."

"Mr. Solo I very much want to answer your question, but I gave him my word that I would not reveal a word about his private life to anyone. All I can tell you is that he had a visitor a few days before you left from the Russian Ambassador with news from home. He requested immediate compassionate leave for an indefinite period of time. Under the circumstances it would have been churlish to refuse."

"Compassionate leave? The Embassy? News from home? That could only mean bad news, like a death couldn't it? Sir, Illya will be on his own, brooding if we leave him. I have to go to see him, try and get him to talk to me, if only to give him someone to punch. Please Mr. Waverly?"

"Go Mr. Solo, with my blessing, but keep your communicator with you at all times."

"Yes sir. Thank you." It was all Solo could do to walk and not run out of the building.

No one answered the door when he rang the bell, or when he knocked determinedly. There was silence from inside the Russian's apartment, but Solo knew his friend was in there. He just had a strong feeling.

"Illya ole' buddy, it's me, Napoleon."

There was a muffled reply, but it was in Russian, and Napoleon could guess that the general meaning was "Get lost!" He was determined not to be beaten.

"Come on my friend, I have a bottle of vodka…"

There was a long pause, then the door opened. Napoleon was shocked at the sight of the man who stood there. It was Illya all right, but the blond locks were greasy and standing up on end as though he was constantly running his fingers through it. His face was pale; grey, with dark circles under his eyes, with a trace of red about them, although Solo could not be sure. A blond beard sprouting from his chin showed his friend could not have shaved for at least a week, and his clothes hung loosely in folds from a frame that looked like it had lost at least twenty pounds that it could not afford to lose. Solo stepped inside and glanced quickly round.

Solo wondered briefly why a man with such a well ordered mind and a well ordered office should have such a disorderly home. It was not that Illya's home was messy. There was not enough furniture or luxuries for it to get too messy, but the piles of books and records that his friend owned were strewn all over the place rather than piled neatly as was his wont. What caught Solo's eye was the empty beer cans and whisky bottles that looked as if they had been thrown. He looked up at his friend, expecting him to be as sozzled as the mess in his apartment suggested, but the blue eyes that regarded him were stone cold sober. What was more, he didn't smell boozy either.

"What are you doing here Napoleon?"

Solo raised his eyebrows.

"What do you think? No one has seen or heard from you in more than ten days, not even Mr. Waverly. You're my partner and my best friend and I care."

"Thanks, but I'm fine."

Solo raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing. Illya shrugged.

"Think what you want. Go or stay it's up to you." Illya dropped down on the floor with his back to the wall and drew his knees up under his chin. He sat there, hugging his knees and staring into space. Solo's heart ached for his friend. Whatever could have reduced his friend to this?

"I'm not going anywhere my friend. I've just come. So are you going to make me some supper or shall I ring for take -out?"

"I'm not hungry. You do what you like."

"Got anything in?"

The blond head shook. Solo picked up the phone and ordered pizza and fries for two. That done he sat on the floor beside his friend to wait for the food to be delivered.

"So you're not sick. No cold or fever or anything like that. I was afraid you were dying up here alone. What's wrong Illya?"

"You telling me you don't know? That Waverly didn't tell you?" The tone seemed to imply the opposite and Solo shook his head.

"Of course he didn't tell me anything. No one knows anything except that you're indisposed. They all assumed you have the flu' or something. Waverly simply told me that he couldn't tell me. He said he had given you his word and that was that."

"By that, innocently letting you know that there might well be something to tell if he had not given me his word."

"I can tell you he is worried about you Illya. I am too. Whatever has happened has obviously knocked you for six. You're not the man to let yourself go like this. You're skinnier than ever, and you're starting to look like the wild man of Borneo."

"Very funny Napoleon."

"What you look like is your own affair my friend, I just want to help. Please tell me what's wrong."

Illya shook his head and looked away.

"Don't you trust me? Is that it?"

"No that's not it!" Illya shouted finally. "That's not it!"

Solo resisted the impulse to smile with relief. He had at least persuaded his friend to respond, which was more than he had actually expected.

"I know you're a private man Illya, and you prefer to deal with things alone. But you look like you could use a little help with his one. There's only me here. I'm your partner and your friend. Your best friend…. I hope. If I can't help you, who can?"

"No one can help me Napoleon. Not even you. It's something I will just have to learn to live with, like I've had to live with everything else."

Solo knew little enough about Kuryakin's past, his childhood and adolescence, but he knew that nothing of his friend's past had been easy. One of the first things Waverly had told him about his new partner that first day was that Kuryakin had had a tough past. But he had also said that the young man was tougher than he looked. And so it had proved to be. Right now though, Illya looked anything but tough. He looked frail and vulnerable, and wracked with something. Grief probably, but without knowing for sure it was anyone's guess. To Solo's eye, Illya looked like a man in the throes of intense grief, but denying it so ferociously that he was not aware of it. Suddenly, he was sure he was right, but how to encourage his friend to let go? Probably letting go of his private feelings was never an option for him back home. He had likely been trained from a toddler to keep his feelings and private thoughts to himself or risk being imprisoned, tortured or exiled to Siberia. How could he persuade his friend to give up the habits of a lifetime? He opened his jacket and brought out the bottle of vodka.

"Do you want to open it now or wait for the pizza?"

"I told you I'm not hungry. I suppose you want me to share this with you?"

Solo grinned.

"Only if you want to, my friend."

Illya hoisted himself on to his feet and fetched two mugs from the kitchen. He poured out generous amounts of the liquid for each of them and handed one of the mugs to Solo.

"Here. The glasses are dirty."

"Thanks."

They drank in comfortable silence. Solo sensed that even if he was unable to persuade his friend to open up to him, even his mere presence would be some comfort. When the pizzas arrived, Solo paid for them, but still Illya refused to eat anything. Solo himself started on a slice of pizza in the hope that the sight and smell would stimulate some interest from his friend.

Nothing.

Presently, once they were on their second mug of the vodka, Solo sighed deeply and looked at his friend.

"So why the bearded look my friend? Trying to make yourself look older?"

"Has it worked?"

"Right now you look like you've aged about thirty years since I last saw you. Did you lose someone?"

He saw a fist heading towards his face, and then a roaring blackness swept him away.

Solo re-emerged slowly, like a man swimming up from the bottom of a deep pool. He found he was still sitting where he had been, but flopped aside against the edge of the bookcase. A sore spot on his right temple testified that he must have hit his head in falling. He blinked away the nausea and looked round for the owner of the fist. Illya was not in sight.

Groaning, Solo got up and found his friend in the bathroom, vomiting violently into the toilet.

"Illya!" he darted forward and crouched beside his friend, one hand resting for reassurance on Illya's back. He stayed resolutely by his side until the spasms of sickness had finally passed, leaving Illya exhausted, flopping back against the wall, wiping his face with the back of his hand. Solo wetted his handkerchief and handed it over.

"Thanks." Illya wiped his face with it, then grimacing, he reached out and flushed the toilet. He glanced at the hanky in his hand.

"Perhaps I should get this laundered before I give it back to you."

Solo smiled. He nodded, rubbing his head and his jaw ruefully. The nausea was rising slightly again and he choked it down. He couldn't start heaving himself could he? The two of them together, vomiting in unison? He couldn't help wincing at the sore spot where his head had clearly connected with the corner of the bookcase. Illya looked chagrined.

"Sorry my friend. I haven't lost control like that for a long time."

"Perhaps, but maybe you needed it."

"I hurt you badly?"

"My hurt will mend Illya. Will yours mend so easily?"

The lips pursed, and for a moment Solo thought Illya was going to close up again, but at the last moment, the blue eyes dropped. Illya shook his head, a glimmer of wetness on his cheek.

"No, my hurt will never end. It will last forever."

The sight of his partner hurting so badly was unbearable, and try as he might, Solo was unable to prevent a tear from escaping before he hurriedly wiped it away. Illya's sharp eyes did not miss it, however.

"You really care this much for me Napoleon? Even though you don't know why?"

"I know you are hurting, Illya and that hurts me because I know I can't do anything to make it go away."

For a long moment, Illya stared at his friend, his eyes slightly red-rimmed now, his face white. Then he got up and walked slightly shakily into the next room, his bedroom. He returned with a black and white photograph in a silver frame. He handed it to Napoleon. Napoleon looked at it with interest. It was a very nice picture of Illya at the age of about fifteen, wearing the uniform of the naval school he had attended in Russia as a boy. Solo found himself smiling at the serious face in the picture.

"That's a nice picture Illya. You haven't changed much since this was taken."

Illya stared at him.

"I am not in that picture Napoleon. I was the one holding the camera."

"Say that again?"

Illya nodded, water filling his eyes and threatening to spill over.

"That is not me my friend. That is a photograph of my brother Mikhail. That was taken the last time we saw one another."

"Twins?" Napoleon's eyes were wide in surprise. "I never guessed you were a twin!"

Illya shook his head.

"Not twins exactly. There were ten months between us, but we were as alike as twins for all that. We looked the same, thought and said the same things, we were the same height growing up, we each knew when the other was hurting…"

Illya's eyes dropped.

"For all the good it did us. They made sure we were separated all through school. Easier to control us you understand. We met up when we could, but we thought that as adults we could be together then. Make our own choices. The foolishness of youth."

"But it never happened? Except for this one time?"

"The authorities, the KGB already had our futures mapped out for us. Neither of us were given any choice in the matter. Mika always told me I was wrong to cooperate and do as I was told. I always told him that he would end up getting killed if he kept on rebelling against them all the time. The authorities are stronger and they will always get their own way. People like Mika would not change a thing."

"What happened to him Illya?"

"He joined the rebels and pleaded with me to join him. I refused. I always believed there was a better way to help the world. I've not heard anything more from him or about him until the Ambassador's aide came to see me at HQ a few days ago."

The tears fell unbidden down Illya's face. He made no move to wipe them away this time, or to hide them.

"The KGB had acquired information that a THRUSH stronghold was operating in an old disused mine somewhere in Ukraine. Rather than inform UNCLE they prefer to clean their own backyard. The report is that they simply bombed the entrances to prevent anyone escaping and then drilled down and gassed everyone. Once they had waited long enough they reopened one of the entrances and stormed the place. Every last man and woman in the place was dead. They took pictures of every corpse and collected all the files and paperwork they could find. Mikhail was found among the dead they discovered in the laboratory."

"A prisoner of THRUSH?"

Illya shook his head, tears pouring down his face, his hands shaking in his effort to hold back the emotion that was threatening to overwhelm him.

"Mikhail was a member of THRUSH. He has been their chief scientist at THRUSH central for three years, before they transferred him to their new base in Ukraine to head the science station there."

Illya stared at Napoleon.

"If I had agreed to join him could I have saved him or would I have ended up being a member of THRUSH myself? Or if I could have persuaded him to come with me he could have been here at UNCLE with us?"

Solo's heart bled at his friend's misery.

"No, no, no my friend, life isn't like that. You are the man you are. Even if you had somehow finished up with THRUSH, you wouldn't have stayed with them once you learned what they're about because you don't believe in it."

"But Mika is my brother Napoleon, we were as close as twins could ever be. We're basically the same."

Solo shook his head patiently.

"No Illya, you told me you were separated by the state and brought up apart. You may have had the same start in life and the same parents, but thereafter everything changed. We are who we are because of our experiences, things that happen to us, things we learn that mold the way we think and the way we react to things. Mikhail looked the same as you on the outside but he had learned to be a different man from you by then. The fact that you made different choices proves that. Nothing you could have done would have made any difference to the choices he made. Try not to berate yourself for failing to save him Illya. He made his own choice. He knew when he joined THRUSH that you were at the time with the KGB didn't he? He would have known that that made you two enemies."

Illya wiped away a fresh flood of tears almost fiercely and nodded his head.

"The KGB found a special dossier in Mika's personal files, written in his own handwriting. I'd recognize it anywhere. A picture of me, details of how to tell the two of us apart and written in his writing underneath in large red letters `recommended for termination', signed by Mikhail Stanislaus Kuryakin."

Illya's blue eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with red gazed up at Napoleon.

"He knew where I was all along, Napoleon. He kept tabs on me. He knew I was working for UNCLE and he recommended my termination."

Napoleon reached forward and wrapped his arms around Illya in a bear hug. He had no words to say that felt adequate. He felt Illya resisting at first, but Napoleon held on tightly, as much to comfort himself as to give comfort to his friend. He could feel Illya shaking all over, still trying to hold back the emotion; the grief, the anger and the betrayal."

"It's all right Illya." Napoleon whispered softly. "I'm here. It's all right. Stop fighting it, you'll feel better for it. Come on Illya, it's me."

Illya tried to hold back. He thought of his mother and father, and the little ones killed before his eyes by the Nazis, he recalled how Masha had resisted the invaders with all of her strength until they had finally overpowered her, raped and beat her and left her for dead in a ditch, and finally Mika. How as little boys it had always been he and Mika against the world, before everything changed, before the war and the Nazis and the Communists had taken over their lives so completely, separating two lonely orphan boys that had clung to one another so desperately. Now one of those little boys was dead. He was never coming back. Not the little boy who had been his very best friend, nor the man whom had grown into a mortal enemy that finally ordered the assassination of his own brother. It was gone now, all of it, everyone. His final link to the most distant past that had contained grains of happiness and contentment, for even the briefest of times. He felt it all float away and pop like a soap bubble. And he had never felt so alone. Solo held on to his friend even harder as finally, after so long, Kuryakin's iron will suddenly collapsed like a pack of cards, and the man along with it. He held him, trying to calm his friend's violent shaking, listening with a breaking heart to the gut-wrenching, wracking sobs.

Solo was awakened suddenly as his communicator bleeped. He reached for it, reflecting as he did so that he had awakened in the past in many different and occasionally surprising places, but never before had he awakened in a bathroom. Illya too was still there, curled up in a fetal position, sleeping peacefully. Solo recalled with a rush that Illya had wept for hours last night, and Solo had shed silent tears in sympathy, his heart in pieces until finally in the early hours of the morning they had both fallen asleep from pure exhaustion. He softly got to his feet and entered the lounge, drawing his communicator pen out of his pocket as he did so.

"Napoleon Solo here."

"Mister Solo?" It was Alexander Waverley's voice, as expected. "Where are you and what is your situation?"

"I'm at Illya's sir. He's not been… uh… too well sir. I've been sitting up with him all night."

"And how is Mr. Kuryakin this morning?"

"Still asleep, sir."

"Do you need some more time off Mr. Solo?"

"I would like to make sure Illya's all right before I leave him, sir."

"Very well Mr. Solo. I would appreciate it if you could report in at twenty-one hundred hours."

"Yes sir."

Solo replaced the communicator in his pocket and looked round. Illya was standing in the doorway, looking, if it was possible, even more disheveled than last night. His face was white, and his eyes awash with tears.

"Thanks."

"What for?"

"For being here. You're the first person in my life not to turn and run away when things turn sour."

"I'll never do that, Illya. You're my best friend. How could I?"

"Even my own brother turned against me in the end."

Solo reached out and raised his friend's chin with his finger.

"My grandmother used to say to me; `a friend my dear boy is the brother we choose for ourselves.'"

"I never heard that before. You believe it?"

"Yes I do. And as an adoptive brother, Illya, do you mind if I ask you something?"

"What?"

Solo pointed to the empty bottles and beer cans that still littered the small flat.

"What happened here?"

Illya glanced up and saw the litter as though noticing it for the first time.

"Oh, that was an attempt the first night to get drunk by myself and blot everything out."

"Did it work?"

"No. I didn't get drunk enough to forget anything, and I finished up with a mountain-sized hangover the next day, so then I had twice the cause to feel lousy."

"Illya, you've been sitting here on your own all this time, trying to deal with all of this? And here I was on assignment in China picturing you in bed with measles or something. If I had known…."

"What? You'd have stayed here? Refused to go to China? Decided to come over to my home to babysit me?"

"No, but I don't understand why you didn't call me! I can't imagine how I would be, sitting for ten days trying to deal with something like that all on my own. I would have gone nuts long before this."

Illya smiled suddenly. Solo was right at that. If he had had to face this kind of trauma, he might well have gone `nuts' by now.

"Napoleon, you have to understand, I have always been alone. I have been alone for most of my life, having to deal with all sorts of things without having anyone else to run to. I still find it a challenge getting used to relying on other people. Even you my friend. I have no problem relying on you during our missions, but with personal things… it's hard for me. My first resort is always to go home and lock my doors. Keep everyone out. I'm sorry that means locking you out too Napoleon, but I am finding it harder than I expected trying to change the habits of a lifetime."

"You don't have to change anything my friend, just don't be afraid to let me in when you need me. How are you?"

"Tired." Illya admitted finally. "Very, very tired."

"Didn't you get enough sleep last night then?"

"Sleep? I spent the night on the tiles!" Kuryakin replied as he returned to the bathroom and closed the door.

Solo frowned for a moment before hauling on board what Illya had said, and chuckled appreciatively. He could do with a shower and a shave and a strong coffee. He could do something about the last thing anyway, and wandered into Illya's kitchen to see about coffee. He was not surprised to find the refrigerator was largely empty, and the sink was full of dirty dishes. The coffee-maker was about the only clean item in the room, but there was not a grain of coffee in the place. He ransacked the cupboards searching for some kind of sustenance to feed his friend and finally found a jar of cocoa at the back of the cupboard, alongside a tin of evaporated milk. Solo took the pizzas that had been left largely uneaten the night before and popped them into the oven, and whilst they were re-heating, he washed two mugs and made some hot chocolate for them.

While he waited for Illya to emerge from the bathroom, Solo set about washing the dishes and putting some kind of order to the disorder. He had just finished when he heard Illya clearing his throat. He turned and handed his friend his mug of chocolate.

"You're out of coffee."

"I'm out of just about everything. Thanks."

Illya had showered and shaved, and changed his clothes and now looked a great deal more like himself, in his trademark dark suit with the black turtleneck sweater that hid the truth of his skinny frame more successfully than he had dared to hope. He sniffed.

"What is that smell?"

"last night's pizzas warming in the oven."

"For breakfast?"

"Why not? Please don't tell me you're not hungry, Illya, because I can see you are just by looking at you, even if you don't know it yourself."

"It's true I've not eaten a thing for a few days…Just couldn't seem to swallow it, but for the first time I might manage a morsel."

"…a morsel?"

"…or two!"

Napoleon sat back ten minutes later, unable to quite hide the smile of relief as his friend wolfed down the food he had refused to touch yesterday. Once the food was all gone, Kuryakin looked a lot better. He had a little colour in his cheeks for a start. He startled Solo by handing him his jacket. Solo took it automatically and looked up in some curiosity.

"What's this? Am I leaving?"

"Yes, we both are. You told me last night that I looked like the wild man of Borneo. Well my friend, as black beards show up more distinctly than blond ones, you too are starting to look overgrown yourself. We are going to your flat so that you can shower and change your clothes, and then we have a job to go to."

"Are you sure you're up to it?"

"Work?" Illya shrugged uncertainly. "If I disappear, it's possible you might find me locked in the cloakroom or something, but you have helped me to realize that I am not helping myself by sitting around here. I would be better keeping myself busy doing something, surrounded by people. Keep my mind off my own troubles for a while. So why don't you call Mr. Waverly back and let him know we'll be back at HQ as soon as you smell human again?"

Solo reached for his communicator, hesitated, then handed it to his friend.

"Why don't you call him? He'll be relieved to hear your voice."


	2. A Month Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One month later, Napoleon and Illya are back in action, but all is not quite going to plan...

Perspiration broke out on Solo's upper lip. He closed his eyes defiantly. The expected punch never came. He opened one eye cautiously. He was alone in the cell. He looked up at the eyebolt in the ceiling to which he was chained by the wrists and around the small room helplessly. There was no way he was getting out of this one on his own. His face was already puffy and sore, and his arms were becoming very sore. He had been left hanging there for hours now. He hoped his partner would be able to rescue him soon. He hadn't seen Illya for almost two days now, but Illya would find him. He was sure of that.

For the first week or so following his return from China, and Illya's return to active duty following the death of his brother, they had remained at headquarters, catching up on paperwork, conducting debriefing interviews with the junior agents and in Illya's case, hiding down in the labs with his scientific experiments. Once Illya felt a little more settled and centered, they were once again sent back out into the field, but for some reason, although they had made no particular blunders, and had not had to report any failures, they had seemed to suffer one setback after another. This last mission was a case in point. They had each had their own tasks to perform this time, which had meant that they had seen little enough of each other outside of their hotel suite, but up until a few hours ago, things seemed to have been going fine…and then Solo was captured. He only hoped that Illya had managed to get his task completed and by now be making plans to rescue him.

The door opened once again and his tormentor was back, this time armed with a cat-o-nine-tails… the strips of leather barbed with something sharp, pieces of glass or bone it looked like. Solo closed his eyes again and looked away. If they were going to use that on him, he would rather not look. He clenched his teeth and waited for the strike.

And waited.

And waited.

Cautiously he opened one eye. The man, along with his vicious cat-o-nine-tails was lying on the floor with his head at an unnatural angle, and Illya was standing beside him, panting slightly. Illya looked terrible.

Illya' s entire face was puffy, one eye completely closed, the other almost closed, blood running freely from a large cut in his hair which plastered his hair to his head. The blood that was caked in his hair was turning sticky. His bottom lip was swollen and split. His jacket was gone, his shirt was reduced to a few vertical strips, and his torso a mass of bruises and cuts, some of which were still bleeding.

"Hello my friend. Not a moment too soon. I must say you've looked better."

"Thanks. I've felt better. How am I going to get you out of that?" Illya asked Solo, peering up at the chains. "Is there a padlock up there?"

"Yes, but I can't reach it. Those men used a stepladder to put me up here."

"Well I don't have time to go search for a stepladder, Napoleon. I am going to have to climb up you…this is going to hurt, but I'll have you down in a few moments once I reach that padlock."

"Just do whatever you have to Illya. I told you that right at the beginning, if you remember."

"I thought then you were talking about torture?"

"Everything and anything. Come on partner, let's get out of this place."

Illya fished for the lock-pick he always kept in the buckle of his belt, slipped it between his teeth and started to climb up the hanging form of his friend. Napoleon felt the strain in his shoulders increasing at the added extra weight, although Illya was a lot lighter than he looked. He gritted his teeth and put up with it. They would both be out of there soon.

Once Illya was able to reach the padlock, he locked his legs together around Napoleon's waist and started working on it. Within a few seconds, the padlock was unlocked. It was the work of a couple of seconds then to remove it from the chains. Both men landed with a heap on the floor. Both lay there for a moment, winded, nursing their injuries, then Illya groaned and got up.

"I was discovered in the laboratory made a fight of it rather than let myself get captured. It means that I didn't get a chance to destroy their records or the samples of the virus, so I had to activate the explosives sooner than we intended. That means we have no more than five minutes left to get out of here before this whole place blows sky high, so I suggest we run for it!"

Napoleon and Illya ran for it.

They were accosted twice on their way out of the building, but ignoring the order to stop, they kept on running.

"Stop or I will shoot you in the back!"

"Do they really think we are likely to stop when they say that?" Napoleon panted as they saw the exit hove into sight.

"Save your breath my friend, we have five seconds…."

The explosion five seconds later lifted them both off their feet and hurled them thirty feet through the air, landing with a brutal thud on the rough dirt. Neither man moved.

Alexander Waverly frowned once he had finished on the telephone with the police. Another close call for Solo and Kuryakin? What was happening? If it were another pair of agents, he might seriously consider that they were starting to lose their touch, but these two were beyond doubting. They always came back with results. They had always tended to get themselves beaten up a little, but considering the nature of the tasks they were given, that was not a surprising thing. The last two missions, however, they had barely escaped with their lives; and it was not through any kind of mistake or error in judgement either. It was as if they were being besieged by ill-fortune…if one believed in such a thing. Waverly did not, however, and he knew that although neither of his two top agents were perfect, on neither of the two previous cases had they made any mistakes either. There had to be some other reason. Were they being pursued? Were they being set up by THRUSH in some way? This was the third time they had met with some seemingly monumental stroke of ill-luck. Even though, yet again, they had been successful, they had barely escaped with their lives.

This one really had been a very close thing. The local people had heard a huge explosion in the old abandoned glass factory on the old North Road, and had called out the police and fire services. On arriving, the emergency services had found two men lying close to the blast area, clearly suffering from severe blast injuries. Once their identities had been verified, the police had, of course, got straight on to UNCLE New York to report that two UNCLE agents were being taken to the local hospital.

Alexander Waverly and Doctor Simpson, with agents Slate and Dancer and four section three agents had immediately set off for the hospital, fifty miles away. On arrival, doctor Simpson was whisked straight off for an examination of the two agents, and a conference with the doctors. Section three agents were stationed around the intensive care ward where Solo and Kuryakin were being treated, whilst Mark and April paced up and down in the doctor's office with Mr. Waverly.

They had been waiting for three hours, when doctor Simpson came into the room. He was besieged at once by the two weary and worried section two agents.

"How are they?"

"Are they going to be alright?"

Simpson gave them a bleak stare and turned to the boss.

"Mr. Waverly, we need to speak to you in private please."

Mark and April stared at each other, the apprehension clear on their faces as Mr. Waverly followed doctor Simpson out of the office and down the corridor. They could see him through the window talking to three doctors, then they saw his shoulders slump, and he was walking back to the office, doctor Simpson close behind. April stared at her partner, her face white.

"No, they have to be all right. This is Napoleon and Illya. They have to be okay."

Mark hugged her briefly.

"They were caught in an explosion, luv'. They're only human after all. Let's pray, eh?"

They stood silently as Simpson and Waverly came back into the office. Waverly looked as though he had aged five years in the last two minutes. Simpson was looking his normal, professional self, but his eyes lacked their usual sparkle.

"What has happened? Tell us quickly!" April begged.

"Miss Dancer, Mr. Slate…" Waverly began, then he stopped, as though the words were stuck in his throat. Doctor Simpson glanced at him and looked down at his feet.

"Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were brought in with serious multiple percussive injuries following an explosion. We did all we could, but…" he shook his head. April started to whimper, and buried her face in Mark's shoulder. Mark said nothing, but continued to stare at the doctor. Simpson sighed heavily.

"I'm so sorry, but Illya died thirty minutes ago, Napoleon just five minutes later. We tried so hard to revive them, but their injuries were too severe. We've lost them." Mark and April stared at their boss, close to despair. Napoleon and Illya gone? Whatever would they do now?


	3. Tears and Raindrops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of the memorial service arrives, but Mark and April are sent off on a mission of revenge...

First thing the following morning, a furious deputation arrived at headquarters from the Russian Embassy, demanding explanations from the chief for the death of their agent. Alexander Waverly closeted himself and the Russian diplomats in his office for three hours in closed and secret discussions, whereupon the visitors finally left. What Waverly had arranged with them was unknown to his staff, and Waverly himself enlightened no one. He remained in his office, unusually silent and surly, knowing that another unpleasant interview was ahead of him. Finally, at midday he resolved himself and had himself flown to the home of Napoleon's family to make known the devastating news. He returned white faced and silent, and as soon as he reached his office, he pressed the intercom and demanded the immediate attendance of April Dancer and Mark Slate.

Mark and April arrived commendably quickly, considering the fact that when the summons came, they had been up on the roof of the HQ building, just staring across the city, trying to come to terms with what had happened. April's eyes were slightly red from weeping; Mark was looking strained, but holding it together. The whole thing seemed to them like some kind of nightmare. They both found it hard to shake the feeling that they would awaken and find that this whole thing had been some kind of horrible dream. Alexander Waverly was looking severe when they arrived.

"Mr. Slate, Miss Dancer. You two are now my senior agents. I have information to impart to you, information you need because it has a direct bearing on your new assignment. Now, you are aware Mr. Slate, that you were sent to China with Mr. Solo because Mr. Kuryakin was indisposed."

"Yes sir."

"I am aware that the general assumption has been that he was sick with mumps or measles or something. That was not the case. Mr. Kuryakin received some very devastating news for which he needed time to try and come to terms. Whether he succeeded in that, I suppose we will never now know. However, it is important that you know what happened. Mr. Kuryakin had a brother named Mikhail, who was ten months his senior, but in all other ways the two of them were like twins. They were very close as children it seems, but the war-time strife in Ukraine tore the two children apart, and they became very different men as adults. Whilst Illya was dedicated to upholding law and order as an UNCLE agent, his brother Mikhail, unbeknownst to Illya had become the chief scientist and biochemist for the THRUSH organization."

"A THRUSH? Poor Illya."

"Indeed. But the point is this. The Soviet authorities recently destroyed a newly developed THRUSH base in the Ukraine, and every member was killed. Mikhail was among those found dead. Now, among the paperwork discovered was a document in Mikhail Kuryakin's own handwriting, personally claiming that his younger brother Illya was too great a liability, and a material danger to the continued existence of THRUSH, and recommended that he be terminated forthwith."

"Oh my…" Mark began, his eyes wide. "No wonder the poor bloke needed some time on his own."

Waverly nodded soberly.

"Now of course, it is only a matter of time before THRUSH find out what has happened. I want you two to keep your eyes and ears on everything that is going on with THRUSH. If this order from Mikhail is to blame for their deaths, or for the other recent narrow escapes they have had, I want you to find those responsible and shut them down. Whatever it takes, just ask. I want THRUSH to learn the folly of contracting against my agents."

"Yes sir. Er, Mr. Waverly…about the funerals…?"

"They have been taken out of our hands, Miss Dancer. Mr. Solo's family have declared that they wish to take charge of Napoleon's funeral, and because the two men were such good friends, Illya's as well. I will be attending tomorrow along with some of our people; and no doubt the Russian Ambassador or his aide will be attending; but you will both be busy. I want you on the next flight to Russia."

"Russia, sir?" Asked Mark in surprise. Waverly nodded.

"Indeed Mr. Slate. Most of our current intel on THRUSH has come from our Moscow HQ. On arriving you will report to the chief, Wilhelm Tarasov."

Mark and April said nothing to each other as they returned to their office, but as soon as the door was closed, Mark turned to her, his face a flaming red.

"We don't even get to go to the guys' funeral! Besides you, they were my best pals, and we have to miss their funeral! What is the old man up to April?"

"I guess this is more important. Someone needs to make THRUSH pay for what has happened. That's you and me partner. I think Napoleon and Illya would agree, don't you?"

Mark nodded reluctantly, his anger dissipating a little at his partner's calming tone.

"You're right. Come on, let's get moving."

It was a common thing for most if not all section two agents to keep a packed suitcase to hand at all times in case of last minute travel. All they had to do was ensure they had their thermal gear in case of sub-zero temperatures, collect their tickets from Lisa Rogers and they were off to the airport.

During their ten-hour flight, the two agents found plenty of time to speculate about what THRUSH might be up to, what information might be waiting for them in Moscow. The last day at HQ, since the death of the two top agents, had been telling indeed. The women without exception had all been creeping around the base with red eyes, the men with furrowed brows and long faces. It was almost as if this was the beginning of the end. If Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin could be killed whilst on an otherwise routine assignment, then what hope was there for anyone else? The atmosphere had become gloomy and somewhat oppressive, and despite having to miss the funeral, Mark and April were secretly not disappointed to be out of it. They both felt the need to be doing something useful rather than reading reports and debriefing junior agents, which as the new top team, they knew they would have been doing if they were still back in HQ right now.

All the same, April found herself unable to sleep. Every time she tried, her dreams were so vivid she would wake up with a dry mouth and a pounding heart.

"Damn!" she declared aloud at last, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hands. Her partner beside her opened his eyes and yawned.

"You okay luv'?"

"'Keep having a nightmare. The same one every time I drop off. Is this really happening?"

He reached out and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

"We'll get 'em. We'll make 'em pay for what they've done. You'll see."

"UNCLE Moscow. That's where Illya was serving before he was transferred to New York. They'll all know him there. I suppose their chief will have told them about…"

Mark knew how desperately sad April was, how she had been staunchly stifling her emotions in public in order to set a good example for everyone back at the base, but she had no need to pretend for him.

"April, you don't have to keep being so brave all the time. I know how much you miss them. Me too."

"But I do…"

He twisted in his seat so that he was half facing her, and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and held her to him. He felt her resisting for a moment, then she buried her face in his shoulder. He felt her hair tickling his face, then she started to weep, making no noise at all, her tears wetting the soft material of his jacket. Finally, she pulled away, and accepted his proffered handkerchief with a small smile.

"Thanks, partner."

Mark smiled at her.

"I think we'll be landing in twenty minutes or so if you wanted to use the facilities."

That prompted a laugh.

"You mean so that I can blow my nose, wash my face and make myself look presentable again?"

"Well you can do that too if you want." He agreed. April chuckled, and grabbing her handbag, she quickly vanished, heading for the washroom.

To their relief, they found two section two agents waiting for them at the airport once they were through customs. One tall and burly with dark brown hair and muscles like Hercules, the other tall and gangly, with red hair, freckles and horn-rimmed glasses. The Herculean agent held out his hand and spoke in good, though heavily accented English.

"Agent Polokofiev at your service. UNCLE Moscow, section two, number two. This is Agent Molovotski, section two number one."

Mark and April shook hands warmly and introduced themselves.

"Will you come with us? Mr. Tarasov is looking forward to meeting you. We have some valuable information waiting for you that will help your investigation."

"Er yeah…about that. "Mark began, hesitantly. "I know Illya…Mr. Kuryakin was based here before he came to New York, so you must have known him a long time."

Polokofiev exchanged a glance with his partner. Molovitski responded.

"Yes, Kuryakin was a great loss to Moscow. We were all very sorry when we were informed of his death. Here…"

They alighted from the van onto a very ordinary looking street and into a tailor's shop called Del Floria's, almost as though it had been transplanted complete from New York. With the strange feeling that they had somehow been transported back to America without their knowledge, they entered the fitting room, through the wall and into reception. The young woman smiled and handed them their badges. Attaching their badges to their lapels, they followed their hosts through very familiar looking corridors until they reached what, in New York, would have been Mr. Waverley's office. Molovitski knocked, and opened the door. He spoke in rapid Russian for a moment and then turned to the visitors.

"Mr. Tarasov is waiting to see you. Please go inside. We will take care of your cases for you until you are ready."

"Thank you." April replied, and followed her partner into the room. It was very like Mr. Waverly's office in New York, except that where Waverly had a bank of computers against the furthest wall, this office had a door. They could hear a lot of noise coming from the other side of the door, leading them to the not unreasonable conclusion that Tarasov's computers were in the room through the door. Tarasov himself stood up and smiled.

He was perhaps approaching fifty, an erect man with salt-and-pepper hair, and soft grey eyes. He shook both their hands welcomingly.

"Welcome to UNCLE Moscow. You are Mark Slate and April Dancer, yes? Among New York's finest."

"Pleased to meet you Mr. Tarasov." April replied. "I only wish it could have been in happier circumstances."

"Yes, now that is one of the reasons you are here. I have a couple of visitors in my computer room who I believe will be able to help you make a start on this case. I think I should bring them in to see you before we begin our meeting."

Ten o'clock in the morning, around three hundred miles away from New York City, the rain fell down bleakly from a leaden sky as a thin stream of mourners finally left the chapel. Colleagues, friends and family of Napoleon Solo, and friends and colleagues of Illya Kuryakin had watched miserably as two coffins, side by side, slid slowly and gracefully into the furnace. The Solo family had requested that Napoleon's body be burnt, and his ashes returned to them so that they could scatter them on their land, the land where he had been so happy as a little boy. Kuryakin's people, once his death had been confirmed, had no interest in his remains, and so the Solos had taken charge of him also. He was Napoleon's best friend, and he had found a second home with them. It was only right that he be given the chance to gain some peace finally, on the Solo family land, even though it was thousands of miles away from his own homeland.

The crematorium sat in several acres of luxurious woodland, just now at the start of the year, starting to show signs of coming to life after a long winter. Some of the attendees took the chance to walk among the trees, to breathe in the fresh air and try and soften the hard, solid knot of fear and grief lodging in their throats and hearts. Heather McNabb and Lisa Rogers walked together, saying nothing, but both still blinking the tears away.

"I still can't believe that they have gone." Heather murmured softly to her companion, pulling her coat closely round her. "Illya and I had a date lined up for this Saturday…"

Lisa sniffed her agreement, and blew her nose.

"I know. I have…I mean I had a date arranged with Napoleon."

"I feel sorry for Mark and April too, sent off straight on another mission without even being able to come to the funeral and say goodbye."

"At least they're keeping busy, and what they are doing is for Napoleon and Illya. Their task is to investigate the intel we're getting from Russia and make sure anyone from THRUSH that deserves to pay is made to pay."

Heather looked up at Lisa.

"You mean that there's a chance their deaths were not an accident?"

Lisa laughed ironically.

"Have you ever known Illya make any mistake when it comes to explosives? No, I can't believe that what happened was an accident. I believe they were murdered by THRUSH."

They stopped at the edge of the trees, and watched Napoleon's family climbing into cars, wiping their eyes and shaking hands.

"I still can't believe they're gone. They were both so alive, you know?" Lisa nodded. She well understood Heather's feelings. Her heart was aching too. She slipped her arm through Heather's.

"Come on, you. Let's get back to the others. When we get back to town, we'll go and have a drink…in memory of the boys."

"A whisky or a vodka?"

Lisa smiled.

"Both, in their honour."

The two women resumed their walk.

Wilhelm Tarasov invited Mark and April to sit, and strode across the room to the door in two steps and flung it open. He stuck his head into the room and spoke in English.

"Excuse me for a moment, but the two New York agents we have been waiting for are here and are eager to make your acquaintance."

He stepped back and stood with his back to the window, watching Mark and April closely. The two agents looked up, as Tarasov's visitors came into the room, smiled and said;

"Hello you two. Have a good trip?"

They gasped.

Standing there, smiling shyly, bruised, beaten and battered, but alive were Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin.


	4. Napoleon and Illya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark and April have an unexpected encounter in Moscow and a plan is hatched...

April marched up to Napoleon and slapped him hard across the cheek.

"How dare you do that to everyone!" she cried, then pulled him to her in a tight hug. Mark too was equally as angry as he was pleased to see his friends alive and well. He tentatively shook Illya's hand, before giving a laugh and hugging him. When the first shock was over, Mark put his arm around his partner and frowned.

"I totally agree with April on this though. It's a relief to know you are safe, but do you have any idea what you put everyone through? How many people know the truth?"

Napoleon and Illya exchanged glances. Neither of them looked happy.

"Very few. Mr. Waverly and the Russian Ambassador and his aides worked out the details between them apparently. The only way to make sure that…" Illya's voice gave out and he shook his head and walked to the window. Tarasov patted his shoulder. Napoleon looked upset.

"My family… my family all believe that I am dead, and that I was too badly burnt in the explosion to be recognizable. No one else knows. A few of the staff here in UNCLE Moscow, Mr. Waverly, the Russian Ambassador and his aide…and now you two." He ran a hand through his hair.

"I can't imagine what my family must be going through right now… and I doubt they will ever forgive me for doing this to them."

Mark and April looked at each other. Clearly, Napoleon and Illya were having a difficult time adjusting to this new situation themselves right now. The last thing they needed was recriminations coming from their best friends.

"I'm glad Mr. Waverly sent us to join you. At least we can help you get this lot sorted out." Mark replied sincerely. Napoleon looked grateful. Illya was still staring out of the window, his arms wrapped around himself.

Tarasov sat down at his desk, and urged Illya to return to the table and sit with his friends. He declined, however and paced back and forth across the room. Tarasov watched him for a moment, and then turned back to the table.

"It is probably evident to all of you what is at stake here, and what has happened, but to make it plain I will set it all out for you. Now, I take it you two now know about the destruction of the Ukraini mine?"

"The destruction of the THRUSH scientific center, and the death of all its staff, including Illya's brother." Mark replied. "Yes, Mr. Waverly gave us the heads up before we left New York."

"No doubt he also mentioned that Mikhail Kuryakin left a memorandum containing a recommendation for Illya's execution. We have been spending the last month trying to determine if that recommendation had been seen by any other THRUSH personnel and if it had in fact been turned into an order."

"THRUSH are always trying to kill off UNCLE personnel anyway." Mark commented. Tarasov nodded.

"True, but that is not the same thing as deliberately setting out to track someone down, and pursuing them with the sole intention of murder. Whoever else gets in the way will be taken down along with the intended target."

"So that is why I had to die." Illya put in, sitting himself down at the table and glowering round the room. "Section two here have been working almost exclusively on this ever since…."

He shook his head and rested his elbows on the table, putting his head in his hands. Napoleon sighed.

"Illya and I don't see eye to eye over this. Mr. Tarasov's people discovered that a THRUSH warrant has been sworn out for Illya's head to be delivered to THRUSH central, with or without his body attached to it. If we die, we buy ourselves a little time to hunt these men down"

"If I die Napoleon, not we!" Illya interjected with a black look at his partner. "There was no need for you to do this, to put your people through this."

"I wasn't going to let you do this alone, Illya!" Napoleon flared suddenly, rounding on him. Mark raised a hand in a conciliatory gesture.

"Hey mates, calm down yeah? What's done is done. Illya, for what it's worth, I know how I would feel if I found April had done for me what Napoleon has done for you… at least, I think I do, but I sure know that four can do a lot more than one on his own. With the whole THRUSH organization hunting you down, what chance have you got on your own finding anything out without getting your head blown off?"

Illya flashed him a look compounding of annoyance and gratitude, then buried his face in his hands once more. Mark shook his head.

"The thing is, where do we start? I know he worked for THRUSH and all, but what does Illya's brother stand to gain by ordering his execution? I mean even though they might `ave been on opposite sides, blood is still thicker than water, innit?"

Illya looked at Mark dully.

"The reason would be clear enough if you were able to see his body, Mark. Mika and I were almost completely identical in every way. In fact, the only way to tell us apart was through the colour of our eyes. Mika had green eyes."

Mark looked puzzled.

"So?...Oh…Oh!" he said, as light dawned. April stared.

"Are you saying that….? That's horrible!"

Tarasov tapped the table.

"That is why it is so necessary for Illya to `die', because with him out of the way, it would have been child's play for Mikhail to step into his shoes at UNCLE."

Illya nodded.

"He knows me very well…. he knew me well…he would have had no problem becoming me until he was ready to destroy everything; and he would. Mikhail is about the most single-minded person I know…" Illya shook his head and turned away. "Well, he was."

"But now Mikhail is most certainly dead, and the world think Illya is also dead, what will THRUSH do now?"

"But surely," put in April, "If the point of killing Illya was to put Mikhail in his place, with Mikhail himself dead, what would the point of THRUSH killing Illya?"

Napoleon and Illya exchanged glances with Tarasov. Tarasov raised an eyebrow.

"The only people who know of the death of Mikhail Kuryakin is Alexander Waverly, and everyone in this room. Those agents who dealt with the body itself simply know that it is the body of a THRUSH underling."

Mark and April stared at each other aghast.

"You're gonna put Illya in green contact lenses and have him pretend to be his brother? That sounds bloomin' dangerous, mate."

"If Mikhail has the authority to order an execution, he has the authority to cancel it. Either way, it would be the best and quickest way to get to the root of this thing."

Napoleon was chewing his knuckles thoughtfully, listening to the conversation but making no contribution to it. Finally, the chatter died away as one by one everyone turned to look at him. He looked round the room in surprise.

"What?" he asked.

"You're my partner, Napoleon. I think they want to know what you think." Illya reminded him drily. Napoleon sighed.

"I think… I think I want to be laying on a nice warm beach right now, with a gorgeous woman in my arms."

He shook himself out of his reverie and sighed again, rather heavily.

"I hate all of this. I don't want Illya going in there alone… actually I don't want him going in there at all. It seems more like suicide to me. If he has to go in, then I am going in there with him."

"Don't be daft, Guv, THRUSH wouldn't be fooled with that! They know that mug of yours too well!"

Napoleon rolled his eyes dramatically.

"I wasn't proposing to stroll in there with him side by side, idiot. What kind of fool do you take me for? But surely we could arrange some kind of little sideshow to get THRUSH interested couldn't we, sir?" He appealed to the older man who stroked his chin thoughtfully. "If Illya, dressed and pretending to be his brother were to…er… capture me in front of Mikhail's THRUSH friends…? It would take a bit of acting to convince them that we hate each other of course, but…"

"How long do you want to be tortured before we come charging to your rescue?" April asked with a glance at her partner. No one replied to her question. Illya was still standing with his back to them. He turned slowly, and they could see sadness and despair in his eyes, unable to quite hide it.

"If they have any doubts about my identity, Napoleon, they will no doubt assign me to be the one to torture you."

The two men's eyes locked. Napoleon wore a ghost of a smile.

"It's happened before…twice."

"I remember. I still have nightmares about the day we first met*… then the Gurnius Affair was… that almost killed me. I couldn't do it to you again my friend. I'd rather die."

Napoleon was on his feet, willing his partner to see his side.

"Illya, don't you understand, there's nothing they or anyone can do to me that I haven't already been through at one point or another…I would rather go through all of it again than let you die or be killed. I…I can't…"

"Napoleon, they would not expect me to take it easy on you. That would be a part of the test, they know how close we are…if I were to hold back from anything… it would kill me to have to do that to you again…"

"Illya, look at me. I am asking you please… the alternative is that sooner or later they will catch up with us and kill you… and whatever you might say of yourself, that would kill me. I would rather suffer the worse torture imaginable if it means at the end of it that…" Napoleon's voice gave out, and a single tear rolled down his nose. His partner took Napoleon's chin in his right hand and gave him a hard stare.

"Are you certain about this, Solo?"

"Certain, sure."

"And I suppose you will be shooting your mouth off? After all, you hate me for what I've done to your partner."

The corner of Napoleon's mouth twitched, and he nodded.

"I suppose verbal attacks can hurt as much as physical ones… Illya, just so that you know… anything I might say, even under duress is…it will be…"

Illya placed his hand over Napoleon's mouth.

"I know, my friend. Forgiveness now, for what we are about to do to each other?"

Mark and April watched, moved, as their friends clasped hands firmly in their pact. They had already been through so much, it seemed unfair that they may soon find themselves forced to become enemies, firing bitter words, and physical torture at one another simply to stay alive. April opened her bag and fished out two sealed plastic packets and threw one each to the two senior agents. Napoleon caught his easily and stared at it, turning it over and over in his hand.

"What is it?" he asked. Illya's eyebrows rose high.

"They have completed it? It is fully tested?"

April nodded, and turned to Napoleon.

"When you are ready to begin your mission, Napoleon, you swallow this pill. It's a micro transmitter. It sends out a homing beacon on UNCLE's new secret wavelength, and it will keep transmitting for up to two weeks, even if you die. The range is… maybe… fifty miles or so. One of Illya's designs."

"Hey, partner mine, that's pretty cool. That way Mark and April can be following us at a safe distance and come charging to our rescue in the nick of time, as always."

Mr. Tarasov got to his feet.

"Well then, I am happy you have it all settled. I will leave you to sort out the details. I suggest you waste no time getting started. Time is of the essence now. Speak to my CEA, Molovitski who will make sure you are supplied with everything you need for your mission. Good luck." He turned to Mark and April on his way out.

"Your part in this is possibly the most critical. You are going to have to monitor their situation any way you can, and make sure you can get them out of there, wherever they end up, before they end up dead."

He left the room. The four agents were left sitting around the table.

"Very well guys." Napoleon said, looking around. "It's time we made our plans…"

*Reference to The I Have Your Back Affair


	5. Mikhail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya prepares to infiltrate Thrush...

The THRUSH airwaves were buzzing brightly and enthusiastically with the exciting news.

"We've done it! Solo and Kuryakin are dead! UNCLE is next!"

The rumour wagon rolled even faster, and even more elaborately, but ultimately, regardless of the tall stories circulating over who should get the ultimate credit for it, THRUSH had finally succeeded in ridding itself of those two troublemakers once and for all. Colonel Howard Moran sniffed as he gazed at his reflection in the mirror and toweled his face dry.

"All too late now of course. If THRUSH could have gotten rid of them when MK was still alive we could've gotten somewhere in UNCLE."

"Do we know for sure that he's dead? Was he in that place when they killed everyone?" his aide asked, taking the towel and folding it thoughtfully. "I heard a rumour that he was still in Brazil after those herbs and plants of his, and that he hadn't got back yet. He might still be down there."

Moran shook his head.

"It's been over a month. He'd have been on to us by now if he was still alive. Shame though, he was one of the most promising men we've had for a long time. Imagine what an enemy he'd have made if he had joined that brother of his in UNCLE?"

The aide growled.

"I would have liked to have had the chance of introducing myself to that Illya Kuryakin. He gave me a run for my money last time we met."

"As I recall you spent a few hours exhausting yourself with that whip of yours, when we all know that whipping that fellow gets us nowhere. Then in one minute you got whacked over the head by some female who whisks your pretty prisoner away whilst you're away with the fairies."

"All right, no need to rub it in Colonel. I remember her lovely legs though. I could have gone for someone with legs like that."

"Oh no you don't. My fifteen-year-old son has legs like that, and you even try it…"

"Very funny."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Molovitski led the four visitors down through the lower levels of the building until he came to the least favourite and sadly frequently visited area, the UNCLE morgue.

"We keep the bodies in negative temperatures prior to release for burial." He told them. "It makes things far less traumatic for family members…" he glanced at Illya and coloured slightly.

"Sorry my friend. I suppose I did not need to tell you that. I will say though, when this particular man was brought in, for a while we all believed it was you…until it was remembered that you did not have green eyes."

"Pyotr, where was my…when the bodies were retrieved, where was Mikhail found? In the lab?"

Pyotr Molovitski's eyes rested on him for a moment.

"Why do you ask?"

"The Ambassador's aide told me he was found in the lab…"

"And you don't believe him?"

"I can't explain it Pyotr, but for some reason…I just…"

April touched Molovitski's shoulder gently.

"Well, you know that Illya and Mikhail were as close as identical twins… who can possibly explain that kind of connection?"

Pyotr nodded.

"Sorry Illya, I'd forgotten that you…"

"Forget it, but please tell me. I need to know. He wasn't in the laboratory as I was told, was he?"

"Actually no."

"So they lied to me? To save my feelings or his?"

"Gently Illya." Napoleon said softly. "This is difficult for him too."

"Sorry, Pyotr, but I need to know the truth. It must have been in the report."

"Didn't you read the report yourself Illya?" Napoleon asked. Illya shook his head.

"Not all of it." He met the surprised glances of his friends with an icy glare.

"Well, if you have, you tell me."

Pyotr's eyes met Napoleon's in sympathy.

"He was found in the bathroom my friend. He was found on the bathroom floor…he had been in the middle of…er, well, you know."

Illya stopped walking for a moment, but he did not turn round. They saw him set his shoulders, then moved on. Pyotr led them through the chilly rooms to the furthest and flipped on the light. He nodded at the UNCLE orderly on duty, who led them to the refrigerator. Molovitski looked around.

"Are you certain of this Illya?" he asked the blond. "The cabinet slows down the rate of decomposition, but all the same…"

Illya shook his head.

"If I am to try and take his place in THRUSH, I need to make sure of…" he broke off and glared instead.

"Look just do it Pyotr. I am a second away from walking out of here and simply going home once and for all."

Molovitski glanced at the orderly, who seized a drawer and slowly pulled it out. The body resting in the drawer on the slab was covered in a sheet. Illya stepped up and stared down at the covered form. He was vaguely aware that everyone but Napoleon had pulled back to give him some privacy. Napoleon however, stood beside him with his back to the rest of the room. He spoke in a low voice that only Illya would hear.

"Are you ready for this my friend?"

He could see that Illya was holding it together only with difficulty. It was one thing looking at the corpse of a stranger, but quite another when it was someone you love. Wordlessly, Illya nodded. He took the sheet and pulled it away. Napoleon audibly gasped. It could be Illya lying there.

The hair was the same colour as Illya's, but considerably shorter. Illya frowned and turned back.

"April, are you any good at cutting hair?"

"Not an expert, but not too bad, why?"

"I will need you to cut mine, I'm afraid. Can you study Mika's hair? You will need to replicate it on me."

April joined them at the table, and doing her best not to gasp aloud at the incredible likeness between Illya and his brother, she studied the dead man's hair carefully, then nodded.

"Not difficult. Similar style to your own really, but very much shorter. Yes, I can do that for you."

Illya dismissed her with a grateful nod, and she returned to Mark's side. Illya moved the sheet away completely, so that he could be certain that there were no other differences…then suddenly he stared at the dead man's torso.

"Napoleon…I can't do this! Of course I can't do this! What has everyone been thinking?"

Napoleon put a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Of course you can Illya, you know him better than any of us."

"Wrong, I did. I've not spent much time with him since I was eight years old, but that isn't what I mean. Look at us Napoleon. Look at Mika and then look at me and tell me how long I would fool you into thinking I was my brother?"

With that, Illya shrugged off his gun holster, then removed his sweater revealing his deeply scarred body. Napoleon stared at Illya, seeing the numerous scars that covered his friend's chest and back, and remembered the events that had caused many of them. He looked again at the body of Mikhail. The only scar he carried was an appendectomy scar. Otherwise his body was unblemished.

They searched the rest of Mika's body carefully for scars or tattoos that Illya did not recognize, but found nothing. The only differences that might give him away was the hair, which was easily dealt with, and Illya's plentiful scars which were not.

Back in Tarasov's office, Tarasov was pacing, deep in thought as the agents updated him on what they had found.

"Well, UNCLE has gone to a lot of trouble to get you into this position, Mr. Kuryakin." He declared finally, "So there really isn't any question of whether you should do it or not. You really have little option. You will just have to make sure that you are never seen unclothed."

"You could wear a vest?" Mark suggested helpfully. Illya turned his glare on him.

"The only man I know who detests vests even more than myself, is Mikhail. No, no I cannot wear a vest."

"Well." Napoleon said, practically. "It isn't likely to become an issue unless you are forcibly stripped, and that won't happen unless you become suspect. The best way to avoid that of course is…" His eyes met those of his partner. Ilya finished the sentence for him.

"… is to take the offensive! So, I go in there full of fire and determination to beat you to a pulp, right?"

"Right." Napoleon smiled cheerfully. A little too cheerfully. None of his friends were fooled. A little ripple of apprehension was already threading its inexorable way up his spine. "I know Illya, but look at it this way. By taking the lead in bringing me and in and…doing whatever you have to do…you will be letting me save your life. If you go in there and they find out who you really are, you will be just as dead."

Illya nodded sadly. He turned to Mark and April.

"This will only last for as long as I can keep them convinced that I am Mikhail, and that depends on many factors that I have no way of knowing until I get there, so we will be really relying on you two to get us out of there if…"

The other two nodded confidently.

"We are your partners, guys." Mark told them seriously. "We will have your backs. Count on it."

Illya, dressed in a standard UNCLE issue grey track suit and running shoes, snuck out of headquarts, looking over his shoulder constantly. Once outside, he removed the black badge he was wearing and dropped it on the ground, and started to run as fast as he could. Five minutes passed, then the sirens went off inside headquarters, and UNCLE agents spilled out in all directions until someone shouted and pointed up the street.

"There he goes!"

Napoleon, Mark, April, Pyotr Molovitski and Roman Polokofiev took off after him, tearing through the streets.

"I think I know where he's going." Panted Polokofiev, "he's heading for the Park of Victory."

"Somewhere bursting with people, huh?" Mark panted. "This bloke ain't daft. He surely `ad me fooled!"

"Stop talking and run!"

Mark ran.

They spotted their quarry near the monument as they arrived. Illya was the only person bent double and panting for breath. They spread themselves out and surreptitiously surrounded him, moving in slowly. Illya looked up and spied them at once. He whipped out his knife and glancing round, grabbed a woman passing nearby and held the knife at her throat. Without moving his lips, his hissed in her ear;

"Scream as loud as you can!"

The woman screamed, terrified and seizing his cue, Napoleon darted forward.

"If you've finished threatening women, coward, try and take on a man!"

"You?" Illya laughed, a maniacal gleam in his eye. "I could take you on with one hand tied behind my back." He thrust the woman away from him and with a lightning quick move, he threw the knife at Napoleon's head. As he had intended, the knife gave Napoleon a glancing blow with the blunt end, just hard enough to stun him momentarily. Illya grabbed him by his hair, and suddenly Napoleon's gun was in his hand and pointed at his nose. Illya backed round and faced the four UNCLE agents closing in on him. He backed his prisoner slowly up the steps until he was satisfied no one would be able to sneak up behind him and glared at his pursuers.

"Take one more step and this pretty head will look like confetti!" To emphasize his words, he shoved the muzzle of the gun into Napoleon's right ear, and cocked it. Napoleon gulped. Illya spoke into Napoleon's left ear, taking no trouble to lower his voice.

"I have some pretty birdy friends who would love to meet you, especially since you are already DEAD!"

Mark levelled his gun at Illya's head and narrowed his eyes.

"Kuryakin! Tell me why I should not shoot you right now for what you have done to Illya?"

"Awww, you missing your little friend, Englishman?" Illya spat contemptuously; "He's a traitor. He deserved what he got. And you? You shoot me and your friend here dies too. This may not be a hair trigger, but my reflexes are quicker than yours, and at this distance, I will hardly miss will I?"

"I don't care what you do to me Mikhail. It will be worth dying to know that you'll be lying on the slab right beside me. Right beside your brother, my partner, my best friend, the bravest man I have ever known."

"Shut it!"

The snarling voice from behind them and the sound of a gun being cocked, made the UNCLE agents freeze. They slowly turned. Two men were standing there, with their guns raised. The elder of the two, a man in his late forties wearing the unmistakable uniform of a THRUSH colonel lowered his gun a fraction and fired it at the ground. Polokofiev jumped. The shot had missed his foot by a fraction of an inch. He raised his hands, and the others followed suit. The Colonel called out to Illya.

"I thought you were dead!"

Illya, whom had studied the faces and names of all known THRUSH members and affiliates had been wracking his brains trying to remember who this man was, gave Napoleon a push, keeping the gun firmly pressed against his ear.

"You were supposed to. Now your idiotic nincompoops have totally destroyed my cover, which incidentally it took me a long time to create, here I am! I bring with me a prize."

He pushed his way through the four UNCLE agents still standing with their hands raised, and threw Napoleon forcefully into the hands of the Colonel's aide.

"Here, Fyodor, you take him, but be gentle with him. I want the pleasure of taking him apart myself."

He looked up at the Colonel and gave a feral grin.

"Do you want to strike the first blow, Howard, or do you want to see how it is really done?"

Colonel Howard Moran clapped Illya on the back.

"Good to see you back, MK. Good to see you back. Come on, let's get you debriefed and we can make a start on this fellow. Who is he by the way?"

"Napoleon Solo. Illya was his best friend."

"I suppose that was how he penetrated your disguise?"

"Actually, no. THRUSH managed to do that pretty well on their own. Never mind that my friend, you'd be surprised how much UNCLE knows about our operations."

He turned to Polokofiev and his companions.

"I wouldn't try to follow us. We do prefer slow starvation and mutilation as a way to pass the time, but if we see you following us, we are not afraid to shoot him in the head right now."

Polokofiev, Molovitski, Mark Slate and April Dancer watched as the two THRUSH officers walked away with Illya arm in arm, laughing and talking like old friends, Napoleon with his right arm in a vice like grip and the muzzle of a gun thrust firmly against his head. Mark glanced almost nervously at his companions.

"Wow, either that really was Mikhail after all, or Illya's a damned good actor."

Molovitski shook his head, admiration and apprehension mixed on his face.

"He's the best actor. He always was." He replied, still gazing after the departing men. "I only hope he can keep it up!"


	6. Plots and Subterfuge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya has infiltrated the local Thrush satrapy. Can he pull it off? Can he protect his partner who has been taken prisoner?

Moran and Fyodor led Illya to a large estate on the outskirts of Moscow, overlooking the beautiful countryside. Illya resisted the impulse to gape as they approached. He remembered this place well as having once belonged to an impoverished Russian Count and his family whom had been discredited just after the war and sent to the Gulag. He couldn't help wondering whether Mika had been here? He swallowed down an unexpected lump and forced a grin on his face.

"Does this mean I can get out of these UNCLE rags now?"

Moran laughed.

"Everything is as you left it, MK. Go easy on the hot water for now, we're trying not to cause too much disruption with the civil authorities until we need to. We don't want to give them cause to send the KGB in here after all."

Illya shrugged.

"Why would they bother? Besides, give me a few weeks in a well-equipped lab I'm sure I can come up with a way to guarantee hot water without worrying about bills or authorities."

Moran looked at him in surprise.

"I forget sometimes that you're a scientist. You think you can?"

"Of course." Illya replied carelessly. "When can I start to interrogate my prisoner?"

"My prisoner now."

"Oh?"

"Yes, you captured him, but got yourself surrounded by UNCLE agents. You would be dead if it weren't for me."

Illya laughed dangerously; his eyes gleaming. He stared penetratingly at Moran. Fyodor gulped visibly.

"The last man who underestimated me did not live to regret it, Colonel. I suggest that you do not make the same mistake." Illya said acidly.

"I outrank you in THRUSH."

"I am a dead man, remember?" Illya reminded him. "What can you do to me? Napoleon Solo here has seen what I am capable of. Why do you think I was chased by four agents instead of just one or two? I could kill you both right here in two seconds flat, then walk inside the house and your people will obey me. THRUSH central will rush through my promotion as a matter of urgency and I will be controller of this sector in less than twenty-four hours. That is, if I wish it. However, I am neither vindictive nor ambitious. I am, however, eager to get to know our pretty friend here. Especially since my dear brother is no longer around to sweep in and rescue him."

Moran had paled slightly. He had forgotten these past few weeks just how intimidating Mikhail Kuryakin could be when he was riled. That was one of the things that made him so popular with Central Command of course. He had a habit of getting his own way. He frowned.

Illya gestured to Fyodor.

"Get Solo somewhere safe and secure. Blindfold him and put him in a straight-jacket. Put chains on his feet. Check on him every three hours in case he needs to relieve nature. I don't want this place to start stinking because of him. I will be taking a shower. Come and find me. I shall want a quick word with our prisoner once you have him settled."

Twenty minutes later, Napoleon Solo sat hunched on a bare mattress, listening to the silence around him and the occasional plop! plop! Plop! of something dripping nearby. His eyes were covered over by a bandage that encompassed his entire head, bar his mouth and nose. The chances of his searching the cell for an escape route was impossible without the use of his eyes. This could only have been Illya's doing. THRUSH did not have quite the imagination to come up with an idea like this. He was quite effectively prevented from removing the bandage by the straight-jacket he was now strapped up tightly in. His feet too had been hobbled with large heavy irons connected together by a short chain so that he could walk, but only in very small pigeon-like steps. He could only hope that THRUSH would not start to take lessons from his ingenious partner.

He awakened with a start, as he heard his name called. It was Illya, but in a tone he had never heard his partner use. He remembered swiftly that this was supposed to be Mikhail Kuryakin, a sworn enemy, and he screwed up his face in disgust.

"Enjoying our hospitality, Solo?" the voice called.

"Impressed by the five-star luxury. Less impressed by the cockroaches that crawl around this place."

"Keep your mouth shut!" Came another voice. Solo did not recognize the voice, but he recognized the sound of the cocking of a gun and sneered.

"You brought a little playmate with you did you? Too chicken to come face me alone? Even with me trussed up like this you need a man with a gun to protect you?"

"You will come to regret saying that, Solo!"

A moment later, Solo was sent reeling, as one of his `visitors' swiftly kicked him in the chin. He fell backwards on to the mattress and crashed the back of his head against the wall…and blacked out.

Colonel Moran glanced up from his three-course breakfast and nodded as Fyodor knocked on his door and then entered, bringing the young blond Russian with him.

"Aah! Kuryakin! Sit and join me. You must be famished!"

Illya actually was famished, but he had no trouble knowing what his brother's response would be to a spread like this. He screwed his nose up and shook his head.

"Thank you Howard, but you know how I feel about that! Some bread and a little cheese will do."

"At least have hot toast rather than plain bread, my dear boy." The man replied. Illya took a slice of toast, refused more and poured himself a generous measure of vodka. He sat at the table and watched the older man eating. Fyodor stood behind Moran, leaning against the wall. Moran looked up as he tackled a thick slice of bacon.

"You look hungry, boy. Are you sure you won't have some?"

"Eat like a king while my fellow countrymen are in need and want? This is not why I joined the rebels, or why I joined THRUSH. I will not discuss this again."

"How come it took you so long to get here? I gave you long enough for your shower. I've been waiting for you for over thirty minutes now."

Illya turned an icy glare on him. Moran raised an eyebrow in enquiry. Illya's glare softened as his mouth twitched in suppressed humour.

"I went dancing."

Moran nodded almost absently. He flicked a finger in Fyodor's direction. Fyodor took a step forward.

"We went to speak to the prisoner, Colonel."

"I see. And what did our friends talk about?"

"They exchanged insults, and Kuryakin here kicked the UNCLE man in the face so hard he was out for the count."

"You kicked him in the face? A man unable to retaliate except with his mouth?"

"Of course. He called me a coward."

"You are going to have to learn to control that temper of yours, MK. You've been told about that before. You do it to the wrong person and you could end up in very serious trouble."

"Perhaps. My brother was a good little boy who always obeyed orders and controlled himself and where did it get him? He still ended up on a cold slab in an UNCLE morgue. Sometimes it's better to go with your gut."

"You know MK, either you will go too far with the wrong person one day and end up with your entrails spread across the countryside, or you will end up the Chief of THRUSH. I would not like to bet which it will be."

"Chief of course…although I'd sooner get back to my science projects. Howard, there is something else I want to get to the bottom of too. Who was it that took my operation out of my hands and killed my brother before I was ready for it? Whoever is responsible killed a year's planning and ruined a month's work and how much further are we? A few paltry items of information that will be outmoded in a week or so."

"Was it central command who sent you on this mission to infiltrate UNCLE?"

"No, I informed them I would be doing so, and I believe I left behind a memorandum stating that the best way for it to work successfully would be for my brother to be put out of the way for good. Someone acted on it without consulting or even informing me. Maybe someone from THRUSH central, maybe someone who found the paper in the file where I left it, or possibly one of you?"

"Who had access to it?"

"Anyone at the Old Mine Base. Any member of the KGB who found…" Sudden realization hit Illya, and his voice dried up suddenly. Moran saw his face visibly whiten. Illya had realized something. He was not acting. Moran was watching him strangely.

"The KGB?"

Illya got up from his seat and paced across the room and back, genuinely concerned. Moran watched him, puzzled.

"What were you saying about the KGB?"

Illya came back to the table and leant both hands on it, talking earnestly.

"The KGB were the ones who destroyed our base at that old mine, Colonel. It was a message from the KGB to the UNCLE office in Moscow that was passed on to New York that a certain Mikhail Kuryakin was found among the dead. At the time they had no way of knowing that it was Illya."

Illya stood up and resumed his pacing.

"At the time he disappeared, I turned up in New York and took his place. Now, how did they find out about that place? There is no way it was detectable from outside. I designed the security features myself. I was its' chief, remember? Someone inside found that memorandum in my files and informed the KGB. Was it a plot to kill me and destroy our base? Or a plot to murder my brother that someone took advantage of?"

Moran stopped his pacing and stared at him.

"As far as the KGB are concerned Mk, you died when that satrapy was destroyed; Illya died in that explosion in America along with Solo."

"So which of us was the murder victim, and which of us the side-effect?"

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it does, Howard. Whoever it was gave away the location of a THRUSH base to the enemy. The person who found and revealed that memo was probably someone working on the base. They will be dead now along with everyone else. But they must have been in contact with someone from outside the base who set up the murders of Illya and Solo."

"Couldn't it have been your brother who sent that message?"

"No. Security blanketing blocks all radio messages. Even those sneaky ones that UNCLE uses. Even our own people had to leave the security umbrella before they could send out any kind of message."

"Why would the KGB want to kill your brother, MK? I thought he was supposed to be one of them."

"He was, but those guys hold grudges. They don't like to let their people go. KGB training costs money and time and effort, and reportedly Illya was one of their best. They weren't happy when they were ordered to release him to UNCLE. The KGB are actually not the issue here anyway, Howard. They fail, they'll leave well alone. I'm concerned with the possibility of a member of THRUSH being a KGB informer. If that is so, then who knows where we could be before long?"

Moran nodded slowly. He was beginning to see where Mikhail was coming from, but how had he worked all that out so quickly? He struggled to focus on the main problem.

"So we're looking for someone…a member of THRUSH who was not assigned to the old mine science station, but who had a contact there? And someone who had or has a contact within the KGB. How do we go about finding out who that is? It could be one of many people."

Illya shook his head.

"The traitor contacted the KGB, but also must have either had a contact in the United States, or be resident in the States. Because whoever it was set up or arranged to set up those traps for Solo and Illya. The fact that I was the one who nearly got killed each time is neither here nor there. The fact is, someone has it in for both THRUSH and UNCLE. Did you know that Napoleon Solo and my brother were New York's top UNCLE agents?"

"That wouldn't destroy UNCLE…but I suppose it would be a place to start. So who would be in a good position to have contacts in both the United States and in Russia?"

Napoleon Solo was lying on the bare mattress in his cell where he had landed. His hands were wrapped around himself inside the straight-jacket, so he had no use of them, and he longed to rub his head. He had cracked his skull against the cell wall when someone…presumably Illya…kicked him, and he now had a headache the size of Mount Fuji. It felt as though it was bleeding. Although he was in a lot of pain, he was not feeling dizzy or nauseous, so there was no concussion at least.

He wondered how Illya was getting on in his investigations. This was not the sort of place to want to hang around for too long…one tended to end up dead. He did not have to wonder for very long. Within an hour of awakening with a mountainous headache, the door opened again and he heard two sets of footsteps enter the room, before the door clanged shut again.

"Is that the coward come back to gloat?" he crowed with as much disgust in his voice as he could. Illya lowered his eyebrows and aimed a hefty kick at Napoleon's left kneecap that made him grunt in pain and collapse to the floor. Moran's voice raised, cutting off anything his angry companion might have been about to say.

"Stop it you two. All right, Kuryakin, I have him covered. Why don't you remove the blindfold for now. I like to look into a man's eyes when he lies to me."

Illya grinned and pulled away the bands covering Napoleon's eyes. He saw Illya had showered and changed now, into black trousers, black shirt, black jacket and black cravat. His hair was slicked back and he looked extremely dapper…if all in black.

"All right Solo, enough of the insults for the time being. Suffice it to say I hate you as much as you hate me."

"You killed my partner!" Solo muttered. Illya grabbed his chin and looked deep into his eyes.

"Actually, Napoleon Solo, no, I did not. UNCLE and THRUSH have a common enemy. There is no way the Soviet government could have known anything about our base in that old mine where Illya died, so how did they find out about it? At the same time, about the time he was killed, I was with you in America, pretending to be him, and we were consistently being hit by bad luck. I say someone was informing on us… And I don't mean me!"

Napoleon stared at him.

"You mean…we were being set up? Are you sure it wasn't you?"

"Of course I am you fool! We have worked out that we have a very dangerous man to find… someone who is working undercover for the KGB, who is playing both ends against the middle. This person has a spy within THRUSH and also a spy within UNCLE as well."

Napoleon frowned.

"Are you sure you've not been drinking too much vodka?"

Moran lashed out with his fist and caught Napoleon across the left cheek.

"Careful. MK thinks we can use you. One more word out of line and I will kill you regardless of what he thinks. I assume you care about the future of UNCLE?"

"Enough not to trust any member of THRUSH."

"Fine. MK, you tell him, but prevaricate."

Illya proceeded to swiftly recount to Napoleon the gist of the conversation he and Howard Moran had had earlier. Napoleon recognized his partner speaking, rather than his alter ego. He furrowed his brow.

"All right, you want me to think of someone who has ready access to contacts both in the States and here? Someone with an ear within THRUSH and the KGB and UNCLE, both sides of the world? I know Illya could have come up with a most obvious answer quickly enough, if only he weren't dead. I could tell you but it will cost you dearly."

"You have nothing to bargain with, American!" Illya snarled.

"Fine!" Napoleon shuffled back to his bunk and lay down on it, closing his eyes. His head was throbbing. Illya turned to Moran who was huffing impatiently. He gestured for the man to follow him outside the cell. Once outside, he turned back to the Colonel and spoke in a low voice.

"You know what he will ask for don't you?"

"You think he knows anything?"

"Of course not, but I think he can hazard a good guess though. Face it Howard, if you are looking for someone in the States, he is probably your best hope. He knows people over there. Our information on him says that his grandfathers were men of high rank. He has often mixed with people of high rank. He can find your mole for you…and I am sure he will, but only to protect UNCLE and innocent civilians. But if you let him go, you won't get him back."

"I could always send you along with him, MK. I trust you to be able to get him back here."

Illya laughed

"I could do that, but only if I can remain awake twenty-four hours a day every day for as long as this thing takes to sort out. As soon as I fall asleep what's to stop him smashing me over the head with something or tossing me off a balcony?"

"What about both you and Fyodor to watch him?"

"Do you trust Fyodor, Howard? Honestly?"

Howard smiled slightly.

"Actually, the man is an incompetent idiot. But I believe he is trustworthy."

"Well I don't."

"No, you never did trust him did you, boy? So, what do you suggest we do?"

Illya smiled.

"Let him escape, and he'll do our work for us."

"Just like that?"

"Well, we can make it look good…make it believable. Remove his restraints so he can eat and forget to strap him tight enough so that he can get himself free. If he is sufficiently…chastised first…"

Moran smiled.

"You were always pretty good at disguises, MK, I could send you after him to keep an eye on him."

"So you could…Do you want to feed him and fail to tie him afterward, or do you want me to send Fyodor?"

"No my dear Mikhail Stanislaus Kuryakin. I think you should do it…you have a gift for that kind of subterfuge. Take Fyodor as a witness."

Illya smiled hollowly, and reached for his whip.

*for more, see my stories "The I have your back affair" and "Chasing Rainbows"


	7. A Secret Revealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya makes a shocking discovery

Illya was halfway out of the door when Howard Moran called to him.

"Wait there, I'm coming with you."

Frowning, Illya paused and waited. Moran clapped an arm around Illya's shoulders as they left the room together.

"I've had a much better idea. I'll keep our prisoner here. THRUSH Central will never forgive me for willingly letting him slip out of my hands. I can't think why you didn't realize that for yourself."

Illya barely glanced at him.

"Of course I thought about that, but I was more concerned about the idea of a mole within THRUSH telling tales to the KGB. They will want us to do everything in our power to find that mole."

"Agreed. But we can kill two birds with one metaphorical stone here my dear Mikhail. You are Illya Kuryakin after all. You're him in virtually every particular. I think you should go and deal with this mole yourself."

Illya paused in the act of walking down the stairs and turned back.

"I considered that idea, but I wasn't able to pass completely for my brother before, why do you think I would be able to do so again? Besides…"

He turned back and resumed his descent.

"Illya is dead."

"So are you."

"I know." Illya was silent for a moment, as though going over alternatives in his mind.

"What if this KGB spy is intent on seeing Illya dead? He killed him once before after all."

"Look MK, that is your problem. You can handle anything like that. I've seen what you can do. I can't let our precious prize go swanning off back home when I could have him shipped off to central and get a hearty pat on the back and a promotion instead. They've wanted Napoleon Solo for a long time."

Moran turned and grabbed his THRUSH communicator off the table.

"Fyodor, meet us down at the cells."

"Yessir." Came the distant voice of the aide. Illya tried again, seeing everything tumbling about his ears in a moment.

"You would willingly risk all the damage this mole could do?"

"I have assigned you to deal with him. That is my prerogative as the local THRUSH chief."

"Chief of what Howard? You have a household staff here consisting of civilian old women, and a few sleepy-eyed THRUSH minions who look like they wouldn't know one end of a gun from the other. The local THRUSH satrapy was the science station under my command."

"Which you abandoned to pursue your little vendetta against UNCLE."

Once again Illya had to resist the temptation to roll his eyes. He shook his head instead. He was rapidly losing his enthusiasm for this mission. Even more knowing what was awaiting him at the bottom of the stairs. He knew that a long session was awaiting Napoleon come what may, and if Illya refused to participate, as he had considered doing, he would have no say at all in how far the interrogation went or with how much damage Howard and Fyodor might end up doing to Napoleon.

Illya was struck by how quickly they seemed to have reached this point. Mark and April would surely not even think of trying a rescue this soon, although they would certainly be listening out for any kind of message or signal. Illya had a few discreet pieces of equipment, well hidden, but had not had any opportunity as yet to reach any of it unseen.

Down in the cells, the air was stifling. Fyodor was leaning on the cell door, peering through the bars at the prisoner lying on the cot, apparently asleep. Howard clapped his man on the shoulder.

"Fyodor, I want you to go to the communications room and send a priority one message to THRUSH Central. Colonel Howard Moran with the assistance of yourself, have secured as a prisoner the UNCLE menace Napoleon Solo. Let them know that the prisoner is well secured and awaiting collection at their pleasure. Reaffirm that Solo's partner Illya Kuryakin is dead and so there is no hope of anyone breaking in to try and rescue him. Go now and come straight back once you have their reply."

Fyodor gave a satisfied grin, and his eyes rested on Illya for a brief moment.

"At once Colonel!" he replied and hurried away. Illya touched Moran on the shoulder.

"Colonel Moran with the help of Fyodor managed to catch Solo? Are you sure of that?"

"Well we did."

"You did huh? The Laurel and Hardy of THRUSH and you managed to catch Napoleon Solo, UNCLE's finest without any help from anyone else? They'll fall off their stools laughing!"

Moran turned red as a beetroot.

"How dare you say that to me!"

"Oh Colonel I'm sorry, but we've been trying to capture this one for long enough. He's as slippery as an eel. Do you really think Central Command will believe you managed to nab him all on your own?"

Illya sounded merely tired.

"Fine. Claim him for yourself if that's what you need. Let's get on with this shall we?"

He led the way into the cell.

Inside the cell, the heat was intense. The boiler room was just down the corridor, and the piping swept through this room on its way upstairs. The heat it gave off was surprising. The Colonel took Illya's whip from him and paused, waiting whilst Illya removed the bandage from Napoleon's head, and unstrapped his arms, then strapped him very firmly to the iron loops embedded into the wall. Napoleon saw the pain in his friend's face as he finished tightening the straps and stepped away. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, knowing what was to come.

Illya stood by the door with his arms folded, affecting an air of nonchalance as Moran wielded the whip. To his chagrin, Napoleon did not move, or even flinch. He was tiring himself out for no purpose, it seemed. He turned to Illya.

"Is he really so hardy that he doesn't feel it when he's being whipped?"

This time Illya was unable to stop himself from rolling his eyes. He unsuccessfully tried to repress a smirk.

"How often have you done this before, Colonel?"

"Not for a year or two…"

"Well, I suspect the prisoner is not flinching because he can't feel anything. He is wearing a thick layer of canvas wrapped around most of his body remember? At the most it'll feel like you are tickling him. Here, Colonel, allow me to show you a trick."

Taking the whip, Illya stood in front of Napoleon, and snapped it quickly. Moran blinked. Napoleon flinched, and his eyes watered slightly. Illya picked up something from the floor. He handed it to the Colonel.

"Here you are Howard. Beautiful brown hair formerly belonging to one Napoleon Solo."

Moran walked over to Napoleon, whose head was still smarting. There was a tiny bald patch just above his right ear. Moran laughed.

"You'll have to teach me how to do that trick, MK."

"It only took me thirty years of practice. You ought to have seen my brother though, Howard. Illya was much cleverer with his whip than I am. Our father used to…" His mouth snapped shut and he shook his head. Howard smiled.

"It never goes away does it boy? Are you regretting your brother?"

Illya breathed deeply, swallowing his emotions, and shook his head.

"I've not laid eyes on him for years anyway, and how could I miss him when we were so diametrically opposed?"

Illya stepped forward and snapped the whip again. Then there was an identical bald spot over the prisoner's left ear. The two men turned suddenly when Fyodor appeared in the doorway.

"Central Command will have someone here to collect the prisoner within three hours Colonel!" He declared in satisfaction. Illya turned to him.

"It's time we stepped up our business here. Fyodor, will you please untie the prisoner, remove his straight-jacket and then retie him whilst we stand guard by the door in case he tries anything? Colonel, did you bring your cattle-prod with you? I remember you saying you had one stashed away somewhere."

Moran grinned.

"I'll fetch it, if you'll promise not to begin without me."

Illya grinned evilly.

"We have three hours to have our fun with him. We'll be here waiting, won't we Fyodor?"

Fyodor took delight in retying Napoleon to the iron rings brutally tightly, and Illya could see his friend wincing in pain. Fyodor chuckled.

"You think that hurts? You wait until the Colonel returns with his cattle-prod. He knows just where to use it where you will never forget!"

"I'm sure he does!" Napoleon replied, as he locked gazes with his partner. Illya nodded slightly. Napoleon raised an eyebrow and laughed in Fyodor's face.

"Why do you think he is the Colonel instead of you? You're just the menial dogs body around here aren't you? The one who puts the note out for the milkman every Monday?"

Furious, Fyodor turned to Napoleon and spat in his face. Illya grabbed him from behind, a quick karate chop to the neck and he fell to the floor, unconscious. Illya grabbed the limp form and lay him out on the cot as though he was simply having a nap. Then he calmly stood himself behind the door.

Moran sauntered casually back into the cell after a few minutes, and stopped in the doorway.

"MK? Fyodor? He saw Napoleon watching him with a helpless look in his eyes and sneered.

"Where are they?"

Napoleon glanced over to the cot, and when Moran followed his gaze, he saw his aide. A myriad things rushed through his mind at that moment, and in the two seconds it took him to put two and two together, Illya stepped out from behind the door and threw his knife at him.

The handle hit Moran on the head and the Colonel collapsed in a heap on the floor. Illya checked out the two unconscious men, then turned to Napoleon and nodded.

"They'll both be out cold for a while. Let's get you out of here."

He untied Napoleon and after retrieving the key to his chains from the limp form of Fyodor, he freed his partner's ankles.

"Come on partner, let's get them well and truly tied up."

Swiftly the partners manhandled the two unconscious men to the wall and one at a time they tied them securely to the iron rings. Napoleon smirked as Illya locked an iron ring around Fyodor's left ankle and fastened the other to Moran's right ankle; thus ensuring the two men would be well and truly locked together, with the short chain between them.

"Come on Illya. I gather you've found what you were looking for. Let's get going."

Illya nodded towards the stairs.

"You go. Here's Moran's gun. When you get outside, send a call out to Mark and April. Here."

Illya removed his left shoe and handed it to his partner.

"The transmitter is in there. I'll be out in five minutes. I need to search Mika's room first. He had a lot of paperwork left in a locked bureau. I want it. Go!"

Napoleon was set to argue, but Illya had already slammed the cell door closed behind them and sped away. Cursing to himself, he crept up the stairs and headed back to the front door.

Illya resumed his stance as Mikhail, hoping that no one would think it odd that he was wearing only one shoe. However, he met only incurious household staff, and no THRUSHes at all and he made it back up to the room designated as Mikhail's without incident.

It took him only a few seconds to pick the lock and he grabbed the bundle of paperwork and flicked quickly through it. A lot of scientific stuff here… THRUSH plans and ideas too…all very valuable…then he found a small white envelope written on by a rather untidy, sprawly hand. It was addressed to Mikhail personally and the address on the front of the envelope was that of the old mine. So this was a letter Mika had received whilst he was on station there and he had brought it with him when he left. With slightly trembling fingers, Illya removed the letter inside and started to read.

"Mikhail Stanislaus Alexeev Kuryakin

Forgive my writing to you at your place of work. I know you informed me that it would be most improper, but I feel that I have no choice; as you were clearly unable to return to your home at the time you originally intended.

I have to give you the tragic news that my grand-daughter, your beloved wife Anna passed away of the fever two days ago, and she has been buried in the plot of land beside that of her parents.

Little Katarina is well and healthy. She did not catch the fever, but she keeps asking for her mama and her papa. I have had to explain that her mama has gone away and cannot return. Since I cannot tell her anything about her papa, I feel you should know immediately what has transpired so that you can make whatever arrangements are required for your daughter's welfare.

I am an old woman now and not in the best of health these days. I will be quite incapable of taking care of her in the long term, although I am perfectly happy to continue looking after the dear child until you claim her.

You know where to find me.

Anna's babushka and now yours

Izolda Ivanovna Anikina"

Napoleon Solo walked confidently out of the house and through the grounds, clutching Illya's shoe until he was able to take shelter in the lea of a large bush. He pulled a short aerial from the toe of the shoe and moved the heel aside.

"Channel D. Solo to Slate. Come in."

He got a response immediately.

"Mark Slate here. Where are you Napoleon? We picked up a radio message to THRUSH central about you, so we've been hoping to hear from you."

"A large estate near the western edge of the city, big house of brick and concrete, grounds overgrown with bushes and weeds. Mikhail Kuryakin is still inside the house. He will follow in two minutes... I hope."

"We're three minutes away. Sit tight and look out for Mikhail."

"Will do. Solo out."

Napoleon crouched where he was, wondering how long he would have to wait. Would he have to go back in there to search for Illya? Fortunately, a moment later, he spied his partner walking slowly down the front steps of the mansion, talking to a group of staff and THRUSH minions, evidently giving them instructions. Then he turned his back on them and strode confidently back up the drive towards the gate. The group on the steps had dissipated. Solo emerged as his partner came near.

"You make this look so easy, partner. I expected you to have trouble convincing every-one of your bona-fides, but you seemed to have fooled everyone hook, line and sinker."

Illya nodded absently, pinching his lip, deep in thought.

"Mark and April are on the way to pick us up." Illya didn't reply. Napoleon nudged him.

"Illya, what is with you?"

"Huh? What?"

"Are you all right my friend?"

Illya frowned, and his eyes met those of his partner.

"I don't know. I really don't know Napoleon."

"What's happened?"

"I've found out something…. I think…when this is all over, I think…"

Napoleon stared at him, not liking the ashen look of his partner.

"Illya, what is it? What have you discovered? Tell me."

Illya raised his eyes to meet those of his partner.

"When this is all over, I think I might have no choice. I think I am going to have to leave UNCLE."


	8. The Parting of the Ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark and April receive a potentially dangerous assignment...back at the satrapy.

At that moment, Illya's shoe-communicator bleeped. Napoleon, staring mutely at his partner for a moment, finally answered it.

"One minute, Guv, and we'll pick you up in the field behind the house. Being as we're in a chopper, we might attract a bit of attention, so you need to be prepared to run for it."

"We'll be there."

Napoleon signed off and handed the shoe back to Illya.

"You're going to need this. We move out. Now!"

Illya quickly put his shoe back on and followed as his partner started to pick his way round to the back of the house as inconspicuously as he could. Suddenly a commotion from behind and the sound of gunshots stopped them in their tracks, but only for a second.

"I think they've found our handiwork in the cells. RUN Illya!"

Forgetting all pretense at stealth, the two men ran as fast as they could, dodging bullets as they made their way across a wife flat lawn, bordered with as yet empty flowerbeds and small hedgerows. They made for the gate at the back in a straight line, ignoring fountains and flowerbeds, smashing their way through or across anything in their paths, bullets still raining down around them. Fortunately, a running man is much less accurate at aiming a gun than a man standing still. That, felt Napoleon, was their one advantage; as none of these THRUSHes seemed to realize that by standing still and aiming carefully, they might well have succeeded.

April was bringing the chopper down into the field as Napoleon and Illya raced towards it. Mark hung out of the doorway with a machine-gun and was firing warning rounds at the feet of the pursuers. The partners reached safety and April took off hurriedly and sped away, low across the fields.

None of the four said a word to each other until April landed the chopper once again on the UNCLE helipad. As the rotor blades slowed to a stop, the four stayed put, Mark and April twisting in their seats to face their colleagues.

"Well, Guv, that was short and sweet!"

Mark's reply was met with a stare from Illya and a single raised eyebrow from Napoleon.

"Thanks for being so quick off the mark you two." Napoleon complimented them, as the three of them watched Illya jump down from the chopper and stride away into the office without a second glance. April looked concerned.

"Are you both all right?"

Napoleon fingered the two bald patches on the side of his head and nodded.

"On the whole, I thought we were. I think Illya managed to get all the information he wanted, which is partly why we are back again so quickly. If I hadn't insisted on going along, he might have had more time to investigate. Although, without me as a distraction, there would have been a lot more opportunity for that Colonel to see through Illya's game. He was good though."

"So what is wrong with him? He's being very…I dunno, icy all of a sudden?"

Napoleon looked troubled.

"Just before we left, Illya said he had to run and grab some of his brother's papers from a cupboard or something in his room. When he came back, he was like this. He said something about having to leave UNCLE when all this is over, and he hasn't said another word since."

"He's discovered something." April commented thoughtfully. "Something devastating…or at least, important. Why would he throw away his career in UNCLE? Especially when it is not certain that he would be allowed to stay in America if he just leaves."

"Well whatever it is, it has to be something to do with his brother. I'll try and get him to talk to me, but you know Ilya. When it comes to the private stuff, he's tighter than a clam. Come on, they'll be waiting for us downstairs for debriefing. I want know what Illya found out."

The three agents left the chopper and followed their colleague to the helipad office building, where April signed the chopper back in. Downstairs they found one of the young secretaries waiting for them.

"Mr Tarasov's office please, for debriefing. Molovitski and Polokofiev are already waiting for you. Would you like coffee?"

They nodded and thanked her, and made their way to Tarasov's office. They found Illya already sitting waiting for them, his arms folded across his chest almost defensively. Napoleon sat beside his partner.

"Are you all right, my friend?" he asked softly, real concern in his eyes. Illya, intent on being determined and defensive, saw the worry in his partner's eyes and his heart melted. Napoleon saw, for just a brief moment, the grim façade crumble, and caught a glimpse of the vulnerable man beneath; then Illya looked away, and the moment was passed. When they were seated around the table, and the coffee had been delivered, Tarasov looked round at them.

Polokofiev and Molovitski, his two top agents. Active and intelligent, sometimes a little lacking in imagination at times, but thorough and efficient.

Mark Slate and April Dancer, two of Waverly's people from the New York office. To be sent here as backup for Solo and Kuryakin, they were clearly efficient and trustworthy agents, and they seemed to gel well; both with each other and with the two they were here to assist.

Napoleon Solo was the chief of section two in New York, and all set to take Waverly's place when the old man retired. That made him more or less the Number One section two agent of UNCLE worldwide, with Kuryakin the Number Two.

Tarasov recalled vividly the day these two had first met. Napoleon had blown a THRUSH plot wide open, but had gotten himself captured and tortured for his pains. Kuryakin had been the one eventually assigned to go in and get Solo out of there*. Things had initially been pretty tense between them. There was a reason why Tarasov had not told Kuryakin the identity of his new partner when he had been transferred to New York under Waverly's command. If he had known beforehand whom his new partner was going to be, it was a fair bet that he would have flatly refused to go. But go he did, and the two had become the very best pairing in the history of UNCLE. Despite their differences in personality and temperament and background, they gelled. Their successes were second to none.

To this day, Tarasov regretted that during his negotiations with Waverly, he had been unable to persuade the old man to let Solo transfer to Moscow instead of the other way round. It hadn't been for a lack of trying either. Waverly had been adamant though. Solo stays in New York, and Kuryakin was to transfer and join him, end of debate. Tarasov doubted whether there was any UNCLE agent anywhere in the world whom had not heard of Solo and Kuryakin by reputation. Of course, it naturally followed that a similar reputation had been built up by them within THRUSH as well. If Illya's deception had been discovered, there was no way he would ever have managed to get himself, never mind Solo out of there alive.

Looking at them now, Solo looked remarkably fresh and untouched, considering he had been expecting to be brutally tortured in there. Kuryakin on the other hand looked haggard and depressed. Under the circumstances that was understandable. He had initially learned about the death of his brother over a month ago, but circumstances had prevented him from being able to put the loss behind him and move on with his life. The death of Mikhail Stanislaus Alexeev Kuryakin was still stuck very much in the forefront of his mind. He smiled amiably at them, and gestured to Solo to begin the debriefing.

"Perhaps you would care to begin Mister Solo?"

Solo glanced at his partner's tense face, and could tell that he was going to find it difficult keeping himself in check if this took too long. He briefly described his incarceration and his partner's ingenuity, and then gestured to Illya to continue. After a pause to collect his thoughts, which looked like they had been elsewhere, Illya spoke up.

"I don't want to go into the hows and whys of our conversations in there sir, I just want to report the facts. Now, THRUSH central knows nothing about any memo or any kill contract or anything else. THRUSH have…or rather they had a KGB mole in that Old Mine Science Station. This mole was the one who informed the KGB of the location of the base, and it would have been this mole who found Mikhail's memo about me, and informed the KGB."

"So your murder was engineered by the KGB? How? Why would they want to involve themselves in something like this?"

"Sir," Illya reminded him wearily, "The KGB don't like having their people snatched out from under them, especially when they have invested lot into their education and training as they did me. They wouldn't assassinate me openly because to do so would be seen as traitorous. But they found a way to make it appear as though it had been done by THRUSH. The KGB Mole himself was never actually in that old mine, but had an informant of his or her own who was stationed there. This same KGB mole has more than one informant. The only way this could have been done was if this mole was in a position where he would have been able to get messages easily in and out of Russia, and around America without raising any suspicions. We realized that it must be someone of relative importance, stationed in the States but with access to the diplomatic core, but who has been there for a while and established connections of his own in the States, both within the Amercian branch of THRUSH, and also…"

"Also…?"

"Also within UNCLE."

Illya turned to Napoleon.

"You remember everywhere we went; we were met with Satrapys that had been pre-warned of our coming. That was the only way we could have had so much trouble and so many narrow escapes. They were warned of our coming and had time to prepare for us. The only explanation for that is a traitor within UNCLE… and it will have to be New York."

"So Mr. Waverly was right to make everyone believe that we are dead. This THRUSH/ KGB mole will believe we are dead too. That would be our only advantage." Solo replied. Tarasov shook his head.

"I disagree. I think that this KGB mole should be easily found now you know where to look. Someone with access to easy communications around America, and to and from Russia, with access to UNCLE as well? It would have to be someone at the Russian Embassy…wouldn't it?"

Illya looked up. His face grey.

"The Ambassador's aide. It's the Ambassador's aide. It was he who came to see me at UNCLE and told me that Mikhail was dead. He was also the one who told me about Mika's note, and the fact that he had wanted me dead. Impressing upon me how very much my brother had changed."

Mark shook his head.

"You know, it's one thing having to tell a bloke that his brother is dead, but why did he have to tell you about the letter? That seems to me to be a bit too cruel! You didn't need to know about that."

April slammed her hand on the table, making everyone jump.

"That's it!" she cried. "Mark, you've got it! I knew something didn't add up with all of this. If you tell Illya his brother, who has always been just like Ilya in every way, has been found dead in a THRUSH base, what would he do?"

Illya nodded.

"Go in and investigate why he was being kept prisoner by THRUSH. Take his body if I can and bury it myself."

"Exactly!" April replied, her eyes dancing. "They knew enough about Illya to know that he would never just let things rest there without investigating. And if Illya went, Solo would too, and their whole set-up might be exposed! But tell Illya about Mikhail's memo, and the chances are Illya would be sufficiently shattered to believe that his brother was evil, and the one responsible for everything that followed. Illya's death would then be engineered by him at the behest of the KGB, and no one would be any the wiser. It would all be put down to THRUSH by the request of Mikhail."

There was a long silence in the room. Everyone was convinced, but how on earth could they ever prove it? Illya frowned.

"Howard Moran…that THRUSH Colonel will guess by now that I am me and not Mikhail…considering the way I clobbered him. Which on reflection might have been unwise. If I had retained my deception as Mikhail I could possibly have gone to the Russian Embassy in America as Mikhail to give that aide a shock…"

Solo shook his head.

"They all know by now anyway that Mikhail was THRUSH. It wouldn't have worked for long. You'd have been locked up my friend. But your friend Moran knows what you know about all of this doesn't he?"

"Yes, of course."

"So will he be concerned about finding a THRUSH KGB informer?"

"Well he wasn't too worried about that. He was going to send me…I mean Mikhail to America disguised as me…I mean Illya, to try and find the mole…" Illya blinked and shook his head, a wry look on his face. Everyone laughed.

"Don't worry mate, we know what you mean." Mark assured him. "I suppose he would have been too excited at having nobbled the great Napoleon Solo to worry about moles and informers."

Illya nodded.

"That's why we had to speed things up and get out. Central were to come and pick up Napoleon within a couple of hours. Moran wanted his promotion. It is possible that to make up for losing Solo, he might try to find this KGB informer himself."

"Is it likely that he will succeed?" Molovitski asked. Illya shook his head doubtfully.

"He's not stupid in any way, but he has a one track mind. He sees only what he wants to see. The Ambassador's aide…if it is him…will see him coming a mile away and probably set him up. He'll be more of a liability than anything else."

"There might be a way we can use him to help ourselves though…" April put in thoughtfully. The others looked at her. She looked round at them.

"Well we still have to find this traitor in UNCLE New York. If we can capture this Colonel Moran and take him to New York as a prisoner, and leave him in the cells; let it be known that he is a THRUSH officer from Russia who knew Mikhail Kuryakin very well, but no more; we just wait and secretly watch. Possibly the mole will give himself away. Once we find the mole, he can tell us who his contact is."

Napoleon nodded.

"I vote that as Illya and I are still officially dead, that should be a job for you two. Go into that place you just got us out of, and capture him if you can and take him back to the States."

"And what are you going to do?" Mark asked. Napoleon glanced briefly at Illya.

"I think my partner has some ideas about that. We'll keep in touch with you through Mr. Tarasov…if that is all right with you, sir?"

Tarasov nodded. They had all noticed Illya's preoccupation.

"Whatever you are doing, make sure you equip yourselves first from the equipment store. Keep yourselves safe. All of you."

Outside the office, Mark and April decided to leave straight away on their new assignment, just in case THRUSH Central decided to whisk Moran off somewhere. The four friends said their goodbyes, and then Illya turned without another word and walked back down the corridor.

"Where are we going my friend? I know you have something in your mind. Would you like to tell me about it?"

"Since you have invited yourself along, Napoleon, I suppose I don't really have a choice. But the first place we are going is the commissary. I have not eaten for a hundred years."

As soon as he mentioned it, Napoleon realized how long it had been before either of them had eaten a proper meal.

"Good idea my friend. You can tell me what is going on whilst we are eating."

"What is going on?" Illya repeated innocently. Napoleon smiled.

"You found something among your brother's papers that affected you. Now because of what you said to me, it has affected me too. I need to know what it is, and why you think it means you have to leave UNCLE…leave me. I am your friend Illya, and whatever it is, I want to help you."

"What about our mission?"

"There's not a lot we can do from here my friend, until we hear one way or the other from Mark and April. Right now we are better off staying dead. So it would seem we have a day or two on our hands, and I think you have something or other that you need to look into. Am I right?"

Illya sighed and nodded. They reached the commissary and collected their meal, the day's special, and took seats at a small table near the wall. Before he started to eat, Illya reached into his inner pocket and pulled out an envelope. He handed it to his partner.

"Here, Napoleon. Everything you need to know is there in this letter. I found it among my brother's belongings. You perhaps should read it."

Napoleon took out the letter, and started to read.


	9. Yellow Boots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April in disguise goes undercover...

April looked at herself in the glass and shook her head in admiration. It was known that THRUSH people used these masks all the time, and how very real they looked, but it was rare for UNCLE to go down that road. Under the circumstances though…

Mark knocked on the door and opened it at her call. He looked her up and down and whistled in appreciation.

"Wow partner!"

April was wearing a synthetic full-head mask, similar to the types worn by the enemy on occasion, and it altered her facial features completely. Now, she wore pale blue contact lenses, and the wig that was built into the mask was long and curly and almost white-blond. Her own hair was tucked safely under a skull cap, beneath the mask. Unlike her normal style, she was wearing an ultra-modern mini-dress in blue and yellow, and patent leather yellow boots that came above her knee, with painfully high heels. It was topped off by a yellow leather jacket. She quickly tied her now long blond hair into a loose pony-tail that draped across one shoulder.

"Where are you going to wear your gun?"

April lifted her skirt and very high on her leg was her holster with her gun skillfully arranged so that it would neither show beneath her dress not impede her gait.

"And your communicator…?"

April grinned at him.

"Where do you think?"

"So who will you be? It would hardly be plausible for you to be an American sightseer, would it?"

"That's true." April replied. "Well, I speak fluent Hungarian because of my Hungarian grandmother, and…"

Mark's eyebrows shot up.

"I never knew that! How come you never told me that before?"

April grinned.

"Not thought about it. It's not the sort of thing you just say out of the blue is it? `Did you know I speak fluent Hungarian?' Anyway, it's in my personal file, so you've clearly not read that!"

"I started to read it!" Mark replied half defensively, "but then I figured what the heck? I'd rather get to know you by talking to you anyway. Have you chosen a name for your Hungarian persona?"

"Lilla Novak. Lilla is my mother's middle name, and Novak was my grandmother's maiden name. I thought I would be a photographer, looking for somewhere to feature for a series of pics about the latest fashions for girls."

"Perfect cover. That'll give you license to want to look round the grounds of a large house like that. By the way, are your boots armed, just in case?"

"They are." April cradled his face in her hands and kissed the tip of his nose and then grinned at his startled expression.

"You're worrying about me again. If you want, I can wear one of your special bugs…so long as you don't make me tell you where I will have to put it."

Mark laughed at that and handed the tiny micro-bug to her.

"Considering how tiny your outfit is, I can only think of one safe place. Now take care of yourself partner, and use our code-word when you need me to sweep in. Who will I be? Your editor?"

"Actually, I thought you would make a good personal assistant. Can you speak French?"

"Nope. English is all I'm afraid."

"Well, you can be English, but you had better get yourself into disguise. They'll recognize you too easily if you turn up as you are."

"Will do. If you don't recognize me, I'll pinch your bum to let you know."

April grinned at him.

"You do that and I'll bop you one! Use our code-phrase. I'd better be off now. See you soon Mark."

April left their hotel suite and paused just outside the door.

"Open channel D. Mr. Tarasov?"

"Tarasov here."

"April Dancer, sir. Going under now and closing down."

"Understood. We'll be standing by."

"Thank you, sir. Out."

Holding her head high, brand new, high-tec camera slung almost carelessly over her shoulder, April hit the streets, strolling unhurriedly along, apparently choosing directions at random.

As she went, she became aware of a few appreciative glances in her direction. She ignored them, and took care to look with interest at all the buildings and open spaces she came across, taking photographs of interesting looking places, occasionally making notes in a small notebook she carried deliberately sticking up out of a small shoulder-bag.

She came to the Park of Victory and strolled slowly through, taking random photographs of the fountain, the monument and the greenery. She made another note in her notebook, shaking her head slightly, and walked on, still giving the appearance she intended, a photographer looking for a specific subject.

Finally, after wandering seemingly at random for over an hour, she found herself at the gates of the large house with the extensive grounds where she and Mark had rescued Napoleon and Illya only this morning. She looked excited and started taking picture after picture of what she could see of the house and grounds from outside the gate. She tested the gate. It was locked. She frowned. Would a real photographer wait outside a locked gate? Or would she climb over the gate in this ridiculously skimpy dress and outrageous boots? If THRUSH were still here, someone would be patrolling the grounds. If they had all pulled out, then she and Mark would be wasting their time anyway.

She wondered why Illya had not blown the place up before he left as he usually did? Perhaps he had had a feeling that they might need to return here soon? She looked around carefully, over the gates and the gateposts and finally found what she had half-hoped to find. A large and extremely outdated bell-pull. She seized it and pulled hard. She heard no sound of a bell at all, but the moment she released the handle, a cacophony of excited and angry barking could be heard from somewhere off to the left, round the other side of the main building. A moment later, about twelve large dogs, in reality the Caucasian Ovcharka, also known as the Russian Bear Dog. For a moment, April was slightly alarmed. These animals were large and definitely bear-like. They were accompanied by two men with guns, one of whom silenced the animals with a single command. He raised his gun and stared at the young woman through the bars of the gate and spat out a string of Russian at her. April shook her head, no idea at all what he had said. She smiled as alluringly as she could and waved her camera at him, and started to explain to him who she was and why she was there in Hungarian.

"Hello, would it be possible for me to speak to the owner of this wonderful house, sir? My name is Lilla Novak and I work for an international fashion magazine that is looking for somewhere handsome and striking to use as a backdrop for our latest fashion show. I am authorized to offer good terms to the owners of the right property."

The man clearly had no idea what she had said, so she tried again in awkward and halting English with a very thick Hungarian accent. The man exchanged glances with his comrade and replied in good English.

"What terms and when would this be?"

"I would have to discuss the terms with the owner of this property sir, but the magazine is willing to pay substantially for the rights to use this place as our backdrop. This is exactly the kind of place I have been looking for. As for when, that is negotiable, but ideally sometime within the next two months, before the weather starts to close in again."

"What language were you speaking just now?"

"Hungarian sir. I am Hungarian. I wish I spoke Russian sir, but the only words I know in Russian is how to ask for the location of the ladies' room."

The men smirked. April removed her jacket and smiled sweetly at them. They looked at one another and nodded. The lead guard shouldered his rifle and unlocked the gate with his other hand. She looked warily at the huge dogs sniffing around her. The men smiled.

"They won't hurt you provided you don't run."

April glanced down at her boots with their dangerously high heels.

"I doubt I could run in these boots anyway."

"They are very…" began one of the guards before his compatriot nudged him violently and he subsided with a smirk.

"Come with us. We'll take you to see the Colonel."

"May I take some pictures as we go?"

"I think you should wait and speak to the Colonel first. He may have some security concerns."

April nodded unconcernedly and followed her two escorts to the house.

Once inside the house she was led up a large sweeping staircase to a long corridor and a second staircase. A door off the corridor at the top of this second staircase led into a large room full of oak furniture and dark oak paneling. There were no curtains or blinds at the windows, and tiles on the floor, so despite the room having a slightly dark and sinister look about it, at the same time it had the echoic feel that one would usually find in some large empty room, like a large gallery or gymnasium. Sitting at a desk with his back to the window was the Colonel April recognized from Illya and Napoleon's recent display in the Park. Colonel…Moran wasn't it?

April heard her escorts speak to the man in rapid Russian and then again in English, no doubt for her benefit. She heard them tell him that she was Hungarian, and spoke no Russian but that she spoke reasonably good English although her accent was atrocious. She resisted the impulse to smile at that and nodded her head to him.

"Tell me your name again, and whom you represent?" He demanded without giving her his name.

"I am Lilla Novak. I was born in Hungary, but I left there a few years ago to work for the magazine. The main offices are in London actually, but we operate all over the world. Our preferred projects are here in Eastern Europe where the beauty of the women is more natural and less…manufactured. We have a talented new designer who is anxious to design fresh new and exciting clothes for women here at prices they can afford to pay, and I am here to find the right backdrop to help make the designs look as…rich? No, wrong word…er…exclusive? As possible. This house and its beautiful grounds would be perfect. We would like to negotiate for the right to hold a small fashion show which will become the main feature in our magazine, with full details of this beautiful place…unless of course you need to keep the location secret in which case we will of course comply fully."

"How much are you willing to pay?"

"That depends on the access you are prepared to allow us in using the house and grounds, but Crystal Magazine is an extremely wealthy company and is prepared to pay handsomely for the right location."

"How long will you all be here?"

"Two days to set up and rehearse the girls, two days for the show and a day to clear everything out and leave. Five days all in all."

The Colonel was clearly considering her request seriously. He still had not yet introduced himself. He frowned at her for a moment, then leaned forward across his desk.

"Miss Novak, have you heard of THRUSH?"

April nodded.

"It's a bird I've seen in London in large flocks. I've also heard of some company called THRUSH, but I don't know what industry they deal in."

"Well this place is owned by THRUSH, and I would need their agreement before signing on any dotted lines, but if your people were able to confine your activities to the large gardens at the back, where there is a separate access, and if the money your people offer is generous enough, I might be able to persuade them to agree."

April knew a bribe attempt when she heard one. She smiled.

"Sir, are you able to leave the grounds of this place at all, or are you on some official duty here?"

"Why?" He was just a shade from suspicion.

"Well, I was hoping that if you would agree to have dinner with me this evening…on my expense account of course…we would have ample opportunity to…discuss terms. My personal assistant can make a reservation for us for this evening."

The Colonel put his head on one side, considering the offer. He could go out for a meal with this beautiful woman, and maybe even get her to pay him something up front, who knows? Then if he did hear from her again, he could simply refuse her admittance, or tell her that his superiors had refused her offer and confiscated her money, what could he do? April saw the self-satisfied smile as he made his decision.

"Very well Miss Novak…Lilla wasn't it? I will be delighted to join you for dinner this evening. Would you care to use this telephone to contact your assistant?"

"Thank you….er, pardon me, the guards told me you were a Colonel, but can I call you something a little less formal?"

"Call me Howie."

"Howie. I like that."

Picking up the body of the telephone, April wedged the receiver between her shoulder and her ear, and started lazily strolling round and round the room as she dialed the number for UNCLE Moscow. Tarasov recognized her voice immediately. April nodded smilingly at `Howie'.

"Aah, hello again, yes, I want you to put my personal assistant on the line for me for a minute."

Secretly, April was cursing to herself that she had not thought to find out what, if any, false name her partner would be using. Evidently, Tarasov understood her request and its importance well enough, for a moment later Mark had been patched through to her from his communicator.

"Simon Ruddock." He said, almost lazily in an upper class accent quite unlike his own. Fluidly, April responded.

"Ah, there you are Si. Yes, I want you to make reservations for this evening. You know my favourite place to eat. The man we are going to be negotiating with is called Howie. He has agreed to have dinner with me this evening. We shall not need you to eat with us, but I will need you to be around. Arrange a substantial sweetener for our friend and bring it with you, will you? Time? One hour from now."

She turned to the Colonel.

"One hour from now good for you Howie?"

He nodded, almost eagerly and April turned her attention back to her partner.

"Very well Si, all is a garden full of roses to a young nose!"

She hung up. The Colonel raised his eyebrows at her.

"Well, perhaps I will find something a little less formal to wear, shall I?"

As Mark turned off his communicator and returned it to his pocket, he grinned to himself. The final words April had spoken was their code-phrase for `everything is going to plan so far'. He hurried quickly away. He had several important arrangements to make.


	10. Coming to Grips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark and April return to New York with their prisoner, whilst Illya reveals a secret to Napoleon

Napoleon read the first few lines of the letter and then looked up at his partner in some confusion. Illya was, as usual, engrossed in his food.

"Uh, Illya?"

"Hmm?" Illya's mouth was full, and he had another forkful poised, ready to go.

"Uh, Illya, I can't read this letter."

Illya swallowed his mouthful and looked up.

"Just read it Napoleon, forget about the…"

Napoleon shook his head.

"No, Illya, I can't read it! I can read Russian reasonably well, but this isn't Russian. I don't know what it is."

Illya choked, almost spitting out his second forkful of food in the process, and his eyes watered. He took the letter back, and blushed, looking embarrassed.

"I'm sorry my friend, I forgot. It's written in my own language. It's Ukrainian."

Napoleon looked faintly amused.

"You forgot that I don't speak Ukrainian or…?"

"I forgot that the letter is not in Russian."

Illya tucked the letter back into his pocket and continued with his meal. Napoleon frowned.

"Well I know I cannot read it, but please don't let me stop you from reading it."

"I am already familiar with the contents of the letter, thank you."

Napoleon found himself rolling his eyes, very like his partner.

"Illya, are you going to read it to me or not?"

"Not."

"Illya?"

"Not while I am eating my dinner, old friend. Patience is a virtue."

Napoleon ground his teeth in frustration at his aggravating partner. Illya simply raised his eyebrows. He seemed to be amused at something.

"Napoleon, your meal is getting cold. Eat, and then we'll talk."

Containing his irritation with an effort, Napoleon started to eat.

MFU MFU MFU

Mark Slate, wearing his tuxedo with the tie ends undone and hanging down the front of his shirt, drove the gleaming black limousine and pulled up in front of the gates of the large mansion. An armed guard made an appearance at the window.

"Da?"

"Simon Ruddock. I'm here to collect Miss Lilla Novak and your Colonel." Slate replied, in his upper-crust tones. The guard nodded and waved at a colleague, who opened the gate. Mark drove the car straight into the grounds and up to the front door without a second glance toward the gate-men. He got out and stood beside the car, and waited.

Just five minutes later the large double front doors were pulled open and the Colonel stepped out. Mark recognized the man who had turned up at the Park, but this time he was dressed in some kind of full dress uniform, with flashes and epaulettes and gold frogging decorating his coat. He was holding the hand of a slender, elegant looking blond. It took a moment before it hit Mark that this was his partner, April. April was gorgeous in her own right, but this disguise took gorgeous to a whole new level. Her long curly fair hair was piled up on her head, with a few curly ringlets framing her face. She had changed out of her ultra-modern outfit of earlier, and was now wearing an ankle-length, figure-hugging evening dress of deep blue, sparkling with sequins. Sparkling silver high-heeled sandals showed as she daintily, and carefully, negotiated the front steps. Around her shoulders hung a long, elegantly plain silver shawl with a long fringe. Mark took his partner's hand as she came near.

"Miss Novak. You look stunning this evening, Ma'am."

"Thank you Si darling." April replied, her Hungarian accent thick and somehow alluring. "Howie, this is my personal assistant Simon Ruddock, from London. Simon, this is our guest for this evening, Colonel Howie Moran. Shall we go?"

Mark opened the rear door and held it for his two passengers, then once they were comfortably ensconced in the back of the car, he climbed back behind the wheel and turning the car around remarkably efficiently in the limited space available, he drove straight out of the grounds, through the gates that were open and waiting for him. Through the mirror he could see them start to close as he drove away. He watched his passengers surreptitiously in the rear-view mirror as he drove, noting the Colonel groping the beautiful woman beside him. Shame on the man! He thought to himself, resisting the impulse to grin. The Colonel must be in his fifties at least. What was he doing trying to romance a girl at least twenty years his junior? April, the professional as ever, was allowing him a short leash, but when he tried to kiss her, or grope her too obviously, she merely took hold of his hand, or placed a gentle finger across his mouth with a gentle laugh.

"Plenty of time for all of that Howie, the evening is still young. Or are you the kind who always wants to have his dessert first?"

"Dessert is the only meal worth having if you ask me." He murmured, kissing her neck. April caught Mark's eye in the mirror and gave a fleeting grimace, then she moaned softly, determined to play her part. After a bit, she leaned forward.

"The thing I admire the most about my young English assistant, is that he always insists on doing everything properly." April told her companion. She pressed a button on a panel placed on the back of the front seat partition. A door flipped down and April pulled herself free from the Colonel's grasp and took two glasses from the recess. The Colonel beamed.

"This is the life I should be leading." He commented. "Perhaps I got into the wrong business."

April smiled at him.

"There's always time to make a career change. Would you mind?"

He took the glasses from her and held them steady as she gently lifted out a small and elegant crystal champagne decanter and poured champagne into both glasses. He watched as she replaced the stopper and closed the cabinet with a soft click. He handed her one of the glasses and raise his glass.

"Here's to profitable cooperation, and maybe much more. Down the hatch."

April smiled and put her glass to her lips as though about to take a sip, and repressed a sigh as the Colonel gulped down his champagne as though it were merely water, and smacked his lips.

"Hmm. Nice stuff that."

"I should hope so. This champagne costs the same as the average working man's monthly earnings, in London."

The Colonel almost choked.

"That much? Really? A cut above me then usually."

"We'll see what we can do about that, my dear Howie."

April was fending him off again, wondering how long she was going to have to keep up this ridiculous charade. Mark too was wondering the same thing. If he kept driving around in circles for very much longer, even this idiot Colonel was going to start getting suspicious. Finally, though, his eyes started to droop. He yawned widely and draped his arms around April's neck.

"Don't know…why…I'm so…ti…" His head dropped onto his chest and April heaved a huge sigh of relief.

"Thank goodness for that! He's worse than an octopus!" she exclaimed in her own voice. Mark grinned at his partner through the mirror.

"Well done partner. You did good. There's no way I could've done that so well as you. I look awful in kinky yellow boots!"

April laughed.

"How do you know? I must have been out when you tried them on!"

She examined their unconscious passenger and nodded at Mark.

"He's out for the count. UNCLE special recipe?"

Mark nodded.

"He'll sleep like a baby for about twelve hours."

"Plenty of time. Let's get him back to New York. The UNCLE airstrip my good man!"

"Righto. You'd better check in with Tarasov."

April nodded, and withdrew her communicator pen from its hiding place.

"Open channel D. Mr. Tarasov?"

"Tarasov here."

"April Dancer, sir. We have the baby safely tucked up in bed. Transporting the baby home sir."

"Good work you two. I'll let my visitors know. Have a safe journey."

"Thank you, sir. Out."

The partners exchanged glances.

"Now we see if we can identify our traitor."

Within thirty minutes, they were safely on board an UNCLE jet, with their passenger strapped securely on to a medical type gurney, and in the air, heading back towards home. Once they were safely out of Soviet air-space, Mark took out his communicator pen.

"Open Channel D, overseas relay to New York, secure channel, scramble please."

"Channel D open, scrambled." There was a pause, and then Waverly's unmistakable tones came on the air.

"Scrambled for privacy. Waverly here."

"Mark Slate sir. April and I are on our way back to New York sir, with a prisoner. We have reason to believe we have a THRUSH infiltrator in New York, sir. Better not to reveal any more information than that sir, even on a coded and scrambled line."

"Very well Mr. Slate. We will have a security team awaiting your arrival here. Please report to me for debriefing as soon as practicable."

"Thank you, sir. Out."

MFU MFU MFU

Napoleon leaned across the table at looked Illya in the eyes.

"So, please tell me my friend. What is it that has you so wound up?"

Illya reached into his pocket and drew out the letter once again and sat looking at it, turning it over and over in his hands. Solo could see the heart-rending sadness lodged in his friend's heart, and it hurt him to see it. Illya took a deep breath and put it back again, out of sight.

"Anna's babushka Izolda Ivanovna Anikina." He said softly. Napoleon frowned slightly, puzzled.

"Who is Anna?"

Illya met his gaze.

"The letter is written in Ukrainian, to Mikhail, and signed `Anna's babushka Izolda Ivanovna Anikina'. This Izolda Ivanovna tells Mika that his beloved wife Anna died of the fever two days before, and that `little Katarina' is alive and well, but is missing her mama and papa. Babushka Izolda says she is too old to be able to care for the child for very long, but is content to take care of her until Mika comes to claim her. You know what that is likely to mean, Napoleon?"

Napoleon nodded, understanding spreading over his face.

"If this child is still alive and well, and if you manage to find her…"

"…I'll find her Napoleon!" Illya declared fiercely. Napoleon nodded.

"…when you find her…you are likely to be her only living relative aside from her babushka. That is why you will want to leave UNCLE?"

"Not `want', Napoleon. Never that. But I know what the state orphanage is like. I've been there and I can't…"

To Illya's and Napoleon's surprise, Illya's voice broke. He shook his head, frustration showing on his face.

"To take care of the child would mean moving back here again…perhaps I could take a simple day job in the labs? Give the child a regular routine…"

Solo blinked. He could hardly believe his partner was talking this way.

"Illya, move back here? Is that what you really want? You could decide to bring her back to the States with you and raise her in New York…"

"And take her away from everything she has ever known? Take her away from her babushka? I couldn't Napoleon, not even for you, I…"

Illya got up from his seat and stumbled away from the table almost blindly. Napoleon watched him go, his heart bleeding for his friend. Children were more easily adaptable than adults, and Napoleon was certain that the child could quickly learn to be happy in America. As for Illya having to leave UNCLE, surely there was something that could be done to help him there? Illya was far too valuable an agent to lose, but how difficult was it going to be to convince Illya of that? Illya who had suffered and lost so much himself as a child had already taken on himself the parental responsibilities of his brother's child, and he would do anything, give up everything in order to make certain the little girl had as happy and secure a childhood as possible.

Napoleon was almost sure in his own mind where his partner would be heading. Down to R and D to start them searching for a certain elderly lady called Izolda Ivanovna Anikina. Then what? Napoleon gulped down the rest of his tea and stood up. For the first time since this whole thing started, he wished desperately that he could have a long talk with Alexander Waverly. With his heart weighed down, and a tight feeling in the back of his throat, Napoleon headed downstairs in search of his partner.


	11. The Problem with emotion and Logic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arriving back in New York, Mark and April become suspicious of a member of staff...

The return of Mark Slate and April Dancer to the New York office caused something of a sensation to say the least. Considering that Waverly had sent them off without even being able to attend Napoleon and Illya's funerals, it was the general assumption that their absence was in some way linked with the deaths of the two senior agents. Mark and April had reminded one another continually during their return flight that as far as everyone at home was concerned, the boys were dead. It would not do for them to arrive looking anything other than unhappy or grim. Beyond that to play things by ear to see the general mood around the office.

Moran on arrival, still sleeping peacefully was whisked away by security to be placed in solitary in a cell with no human contact bar a tiny hatch just large enough for a paper cup of water and a paper napkin with a sandwich to be pushed through every so often to stop the prisoner from starving to death. It quickly went around by rumour that the new prisoner in solitary brought in by Slate and Dancer was a THRUSH officer, in some way connected with Kuryakin's brother, and possessed of knowledge that might lead to the person or people directly responsible for the deaths of UNCLE's two top agents, Solo and Kuryakin. However, knowledge that the man had been placed in the highest security cells was warning enough to every member of staff that unauthorized contact with the prisoner was strictly prohibited.

Mark and April, after dealing with their prisoner and setting up the hidden camera system to record his every movement as well as any illicit visitor that might go in there, walked the corridors of command, noting the still long faces of everyone they met. Not a few sympathetic glances were cast in their direction. April and Mark found themselves in the commissary with coffee, sitting at a corner table where they could watch the comings and goings of all their colleagues.

On the surface, everything seemed exactly as normal, as it might be at every UNCLE base, but the losses were still very new and very raw. Many of the men on the base were looking more stern than usual, the women without exception all looked distraught. After watching in silence for a few minutes, April turned away and looked back at her partner.

"I can't stand this, Mark. I know it isn't their fault, but this is what they are doing to everyone. When all of this is over, will they be able to carry on exactly as they did before?"

Mark shook his head.

"I don't know luv, but I think they got the message pretty well when they appeared back in Tarasov's office. You gave him a mighty whack you know. I could see your hand print on his cheek for almost twenty minutes."

"Can I join you two?"

The partners looked up and smiled. It was Emma Linnet, a sweet young nurse from medical. The only member of the medical staff to have secured a date with Illya, and much envied by all the females on the base as a result. Dates with the blond Russian were considered rare and highly treasured, as it was known that Kuryakin much preferred to keep his dating habits personal and well away from the prying eyes and busy tongues of UNCLE.

"Emma. Hello. Of course you can. How is it going?"

Emma sat down and eyed her cloudy lemonade without enthusiasm.

"It's been pretty grim. Since the funeral we've had an unexpected rise in visitors to medical with physical symptoms of stress. The number of patients being referred to doctor Penrose has risen by three hundred percent. I suppose losing Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin like that has caused some of our section twos to suffer a crisis of confidence. No one has raised much of a smile since we lost them. People are starting to phone in sick more readily than ever before."

Mark and April stared at each other.

"But we lose people out in the field. That is a part of the job, knowing that we are expendable and that our colleagues are as well. Section two agents especially know that fact well. I can understand that everyone is overwhelmed with grief, but I can't believe in any crisis of confidence." April declared with feeling. Mark agreed with her.

"Well you haven't been around for the last few days. You weren't even at the funeral, so you haven't seen what the rest of us have seen."

"We missed the funeral because we were sent on a mission. That certainly wasn't by choice. Hey Emma, I know it's hard losing the guys. They were close friends of ours too, but it'll get easier eventually…"

Emma shrugged and sipped her drink.

"S'easy for you to say. Illya was my lover. How do you think I feel, having to try and stay cheerful and professional for everyone else knowing I'll never see him again?"

April raised her eyebrows archly, but said nothing. Mark touched her foot with his toe in a warning gesture, then gave Emma a sympathetic look.

"So it's you that Illya was buying those roses for. I didn't think he was somehow the type to use them to decorate his flat with. So I suppose it was flowers and a dinner invitation? Now he's gone, you must be really distraught."

Emma's face turned pink, and her mouth became a straight line. Mark and April resisted the impulse to glance at each other. Emma was not looking upset at all. If anything, she looked angry. Furious, even. She gulped down her drink, excused herself and got up. When she was out of earshot, April raised an eyebrow.

"What are you up to?"

"She's lying, April. Why don't you put your disguise back on and keep your eye on her? When she leaves the building later, that is?"

April nodded.

"I think you're right. The girls all know that you don't go steady with a section 2 agent. If Waverly ever found out the…well there'd be big trouble. Besides, I know Illya took her to dinner the other week, but I also know the reason; even if she doesn't. No way are they lovers. She just isn't his type. Who's on camera watch right now?"

"George Dennell. Then me. Mr. Waverly later and you in the morning if you're not still tied up following miss Pants-on-fire."

April smiled.

"I wish Napoleon and Illya were here right now, Mark. They really are the best in their field at this sort of thing."

"They were." He corrected. She nodded sadly. "Well, I'll go and change in Del Floria's, and wait for Miss Linnet to leave. Keep your communicator with you…just in case."

Mark nodded, and April left.

Mark sat alone as he finished his coffee, and made his way to the security office, where George was sitting very still, concentrating on the pictures on the video screens. He acknowledged Mark's entrance without turning his head.

"That you Mr. Slate?"

"It's me. Anything exciting?"

"Just one portly Colonel who woke up and started pacing up and down. He looks rather annoyed, but without sound wired up to this thing, there's no knowing. Why is there no sound?"

"Because anything he might have to say is classified. That's all anyone is allowed to know for the time being. Sorry George. Time for me to take watch. Not a word now."

"Very well. Enjoy it. It is truly ripping entertainment." George remarked acerbically as he left the office. Mark made sure the door was locked and removed his communicator pen from his pocket. Waverly answered immediately.

"Sir, I'm on camera watch for the next four hours."

"Very well. Is the door locked?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. I will switch the audio through to you."

"Yes sir. Thank you."

Immediately, Mark heard Moran's rantings through the speakers. He turned the sound to a level that was audible only to himself, and settled down to watch and listen carefully.

MFU MFU MFU

April Dancer emerged from Del Floria's changing room in her full head disguise of before, only rather than wearing the very loud yellow outfit, this time she wore a smart deep blue skirt and matching jacket with a neat white blouse. Looking at herself in the glass she grimaced. It was a very nice suit. She was unsure if she looked more like a librarian or a school Principal; or headmistress, as Mark would inevitably say. Her new long blond hair was twisted into a severe bun on the back of her head, without a single hair out of place. The plain looking dark rimmed glasses that completed her ensemble provided the finishing touch. She would be officially plain and officially invisible. Mark would be proud of her. She remained in Del Floria's back room for some time, waiting for his call. Finally, over two hours later, his head appeared round the door and beckoned to her. She followed him back out into the shop.

"She's just gone. Headed to the right."

"Thanks Bill."

He nodded, as she left the shop in a cool and unhurried manner. Emma did not drive, and she was too thrifty to pay out for a cab home, so April was confident that this would be nothing more than a leisurely evening stroll. Her mouth dropped open in surprise when her quarry flagged down the first available cab to pass by. April tutted in irritation, and hurried into the road, to flag down a cab of her own.

MFU MFU MFU

Napoleon was collared in the corridor by the chief, Tarasov.

"Mr. Solo, Dancer and Slate have just checked in. They have your Colonel safely in custody and sleeping peacefully. They're on their way back to New York."

Napoleon nodded.

"Thank you, sir."

"Is everything all right?"

"Yes…yes sir."

Tarasov gave a half smile.

"I've seen that expression a hundred times. That is the face of a section two agent worrying about his partner."

Napoleon smiled, but did not reply. Tarasov regarded the American thoughtfully.

"I won't ask you any questions, Mr. Solo, but please remember that I am here if you need anything…even if only for advice."

Napoleon thought about Illya, and for a split second he was tempted to confide in this genial Russian, but instead he shook his head.

"Thank you, but I guess Illya and I will work it out, as always…I'd better go and find him…."

Tarasov watched with a small smile as Napoleon walked away. Illya Kuryakin was a fortunate man to have Solo as his partner. Whatever was going on; and Tarasov knew there was something; he hoped that Illya did not go and do anything rash to jeopardize that partnership. He couldn't help feeling a little sorry for the both of them; especially Illya at this time. This place must hold some pretty powerful memories that would not be easy to vanquish. Especially for a man like Illya, with a memory that tended to keep fast hold of almost every detail he was exposed to. As Napoleon reached the end of the corridor, Tarasov called out and asked him to wait for a moment. Napoleon turned and stopped, as Tarasov approached.

"Just so that you know, Napoleon, many of the staff here have noticed your partner acting a little out of sorts. I know under the circumstances that is no surprise, but even so Illya is…"

"Surlier than usual?" Napoleon finished off. Tarasov nodded.

"I had noticed, sir. But he's all right."

"What I wanted to say is just to remind you that this place is filled with many memories for Illya; and almost all of them are…difficult memories, shall we say? For example, last time you were both here together, Illya lost both his wife and his son in what turned out to be a tragic accident. I know he is not the kind of man to dwell on the past, but there are times, even for Illya, when the past intrudes where it is not wanted, and cannot be as readily chased away. When sad memory clashes with perceived duty, Mr. Solo, it becomes all too easy to make decisions based on emotion rather than common sense or logic."

Decisions based on emotion rather than logic? Was that Illya? Normally, Solo would have said No, absolutely not! But right now, his guts were clearly knotted up with grief over his brother, recollections of his own lost childhood, and now, as Tarasov had reminded him, Illya's grief over his own dead son, whom he could not have had time to properly mourn before being shipped over to New York. There was no doubt that right now, although Illya, as a trained and experienced agent, was capable of putting his emotions aside in order to do his duty; was currently being besieged by a tidal wave of emotions that his present location and situation was definitely not helping. Whether Illya realized it or not, he was going to need Napoleon; a voice of cool detachment perhaps, calmness and logic certainly. An anchor to the real world that Illya stood in danger of losing sight of. Napoleon realized in that instant the advice that Tarasov was subtly trying to give, and he nodded his appreciation.

"I understand, sir." He said quietly. "Thank you."

He was likely to encounter arguments and disagreements from Illya, and in this most private endeavor, Illya would certainly resent any interference. Napoleon knew he would have to stand his ground. Make sure that his partner did not lose sight of reality in his pursuit of his `perceived duty'.

Napoleon squared his shoulders, and headed for the elevator.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon and Illya prepare to get into disguise, whilst April undertakes an investigation of her own...

April Dancer sat in the back of her cab, rolling her eyes at the smart-aleck comments from the driver. It seemed to April that the man had watched too many spy movies. Finally, she huffed loudly.

"I'm not playing here. That woman stole my husband and I need to know where she lives, and I don't want to have a debate about it. Now I want you to follow that cab at a discreet distance if you can, and let me off when I tell you. I will leave your fare and a large tip here on the back seat when I get out. When I'm gone, don't hang around. Just be getting back to your work."

She hit on just the right tone of injured annoyance, and he stared at her in the mirror for a moment before nodding.

"Righto, I'll do what I can Miss…sorry, Mrs."

April sat tight as she watched the cab in the distance, barely a speck, but her cab driver still appeared to have a pretty good bead on him, and they followed Miss Linnet's cab as she headed over the bridge across the East River, and drove on, until they were on Long Island. April gazed around in surprise. Who could Emma Linnet know on Long Island? She had been born in Brooklyn and grown up within sight of the Brooklyn Bridge. In the distance Miss Linnet's cab had pulled to a halt at the side of the road.

"How close, Mrs.?"

"Right here will be good."

She pulled a wad of notes out of her purse and set them on the back seat, then slipped out of the cab. She was aware of the cabbie pulling a few hundred yards down the road, before stopping to retrieve his fare, then he sped away April swung her bag on to her shoulder and strolled nonchalantly down the road toward Emma's cab. He appeared to be waiting, but as April came near, it was clear that Emma had got out. She slowed her walk in order to look around. This part of the island appeared to be a millionaire's row, with large houses with walled premises and security guards or CCTV to keep out prowlers. Who could Emma be visiting out here? She caught the sound of a door opening and a glimpse of a lighted hallway that told her Emma had gone into number eighty-seven. April strolled on until she found a tree she could conveniently lean her back against, and look for something in her bag. Discreetly she withdrew her communicator.

"Open channel D."

"Channel D open."

"I need you to run a check on large house on Long Island for me, will you? Who lives there, anything of interest that comes up."

April gave the address and waited, getting out her Compaq and dabbing her nose with it. A few moments later, Headquarters called her back. She opened her communicator again.

"Dancer here."

"Miss Dancer, the house belongs to a Sidney Hallaway, aged 67, wealthy Industrialist with connections in the US, Canada, France, the Netherlands, Russia, China, India and Australia. He is suspected of having been an arms runner, or at least, the financier behind it, but no proof has ever been discovered to link him specifically with anything illegal. He is known to have an open purse and an open house to anyone with talent…muscles and Scientists for the most part."

"Any relations?"

"None known. He is a widower. His late wife had a brother called Antonio Del-Paglio who studied pathology in Rome, before moving to Britain to study medicine in Edinburgh. Del-Paglio had no children of his own but he and his wife Jean adopted a three-year old girl twenty-two years ago. Del-Paglio was interested in medical research, and moved his family around a lot until the child became thirteen whereupon they came to New York and settled in Brooklyn until the girl finished school. After that, there are no records of where they went."

"Hmm. Do me a favour will you? Can you print all that out and give it to Mark for me? Tell him I'm going to take a look inside. Thank you. Dancer out."

April strolled off down the street again, taking careful note of all the homes she passed until the next cross section. She followed the road around until she came to a large park, fenced off with large ornate iron railings. A private part for the residents of millionaire's row, she mused. Looking around, found a convenient tree to partially conceal herself, hoisted her skirt and swiftly climbed over the railings. Walking back along the row of houses, she found she had to count them carefully, as none of them were named or numbered at the rear, but she found number eighty-seven without too much difficulty and stood back amongst the bushes staring at the wall. Climbing it would not be too difficult a challenge, but in the middle of the day? Broad daylight, dressed like this? Who was she kidding? Shaking her head, she squatted beside the bush and opened her communicator.

"Open Channel D. Mark Slate please."

"Slate here. April, that you? How did you get on?"

"Too open Mark. I wanna go inside and check it out. Something smells wrong, but I'll give it an hour or so. It'll be dark by then and I can slip in and take a look around outside."

"I'm on watch for the next fifty minutes. When I'm relieved, I'll get out there and back you up. Be careful huh?"

"Already done." April smiled into her pen and disconnected. She got to her feet and felt something cold and hard sticking into the middle of her back.

"Do you know what we do to trespassers around here? Hmmm?"

Mfu mfu mfu

"Why are you following me Napoleon? This is something I have to do. No business of yours."

Napoleon flinched. That hit was below the belt. Illya looked immediately contrite.

"Forgive me my friend. I'm just…strung up."

"You have good reason to be, Illya. I just want to help, that's all. Besides, I'm no use to anyone else here am I? I am dead after all…as are you."

The corner of Illya's mouth quirked.

"So we are…Well I have a job to do whilst I am here, so being dead might even be an advantage."

"Are you going as a dead Illya, or as your brother?"

"I killed my disguise as Mikhail by saving you, Napoleon."

"Not necessarily. Those two idiots didn't see you hit them, all they will know now is that you ran away as ordered and then UNCLE invaded the house and took away their Colonel."

"You know, Moran wanted me to stage something in order to infiltrate the embassy disguised as Illya Kuryakin. He wanted me to find this KGB mole for THRUSH's sake. The chances are, Moran will say nothing about me in New York. What happened in the cell, he'll take it that Mikhail took him at his word and decided to make it look good. He is totally convinced about my being Mikhail, by the way. Set in stone. The only weak spot is Fyodor. He is incompetent, but he is not unobservant. Provided we covered ourselves sufficiently, and provided that Moran told him what we were apparently planning, my disguise might be secure. Perhaps I should go out as Mikhail after all, and we find a disguise for you to wear? My old aunt perhaps?"

"Don't you dare Kuryakin!"

Illya only grinned.

Down in Research, the girls took the details Illya gave them without blinking and started work straight away. Illya took Napoleon down to medical.

"Why are we here, Illya?"

"Best place for you to come and get a disguise."

"Medical?"

Illya grinned.

"Definitely. Nurse Berta Jedynak is an expert. Come along."

Reluctantly, Napoleon followed.

When they re-emerged sometime later, Illya looked much as he had before, except that he was wearing his green contact lenses and changed his clothes more in keeping with Mikhail's style.

Napoleon on the other hand…Illya's lips twitched as he looked at his partner. Napoleon grinned good naturedly. He was now wearing a fat suit, which made him look like he was at least half as large again as he really was. Nurse Berta had created a part mask for him to wear which was easy to put on and take off, unnoticeable unless you were looking for it at close quarters, and gave him the chubby faced, mottled complexion of a man whose main loves are beer and pies. His hair colour had been lightened by several shades and was now a light to mid brown colour, and trimmed expertly to make it look completely different.

"So who am I this time Illya? Or should I say Mikhail? And how are we to communicate? I don't speak Ukrainian, and even though I do speak Russian, it is clear that I am not a native speaker."

Illya nodded his agreement at that.

"Yes. Your Russian accent is terrible, Napoleon. You speak Russian, French, but your accent is always undeniably American."

"Well then I will have to be American."

"You could be a deaf mute."

"Or simply mute? Why not simply say this is my Russian friend who has not spoken a word since Korea? Let people think what they want about that?"

Illya nodded.

"Very well Napoleon. I will say `This is my friend Boris Abramovich Popov. He understands Russian, French and English, but he has not spoken a word since Korea.'"

"Boris Popov? Couldn't you come up with something better than that?"

Illya smirked as he shook his head.

"You need to remember it my friend, and if you ever manage to find your voice in the next few days, you need to be able to pronounce your own name believably."

"Thanks partner. What a great disguise. This will really set the ladies' hearts beating!"

Illya's smirk had widened into a grin. Napoleon, in spite of himself, was cheered to see it.

"I think you are enjoying this!"

"I don't know Napoleon. I still think I would have had more fun if you could have been my imaginary Aunt Larisa."

Napoleon laughed.

"Come on, let's see what we can do about finding your niece."

Mfu mfu mfu

April Dancer brought her elbows back and connected with the barrel of the gun, knocking it to the ground and turned in a flash, but was stopped in her tracks by two more guns pointing in her direction and well out of her reach.

"Please keep on resisting. I love gunning down people who pry and interfere in my affairs."

April glanced round, but quickly saw that neither fight nor flight were practicable at the moment. The four men facing her looked ugly and mean, the two carrying guns looked like they carried them only to make up for the lack of gleaming muscles possessed by their fellows. She had no real chance right now. Time would tell.

"Don't shoot. I wasn't doing any harm, honest."

"Spying?"

"Me? Do I really look like a spy?"

"No, but they tell me spies rarely do. All I know is you were trespassing on private property…this park in case you are wondering, you are staring at private property…this house…for all the world as though you were thinking of breaking in."

April chewed her lip.

"I had no choice. My boyfriend is pretty mean, and he wants to know what you keep in there…"

"He's a thief?"

"No but he knows some people who…anyway, he's pretty quick to retaliate if he doesn't get what he wants. I was just looking, mister, honest."

The four men exchanged glances, clearly debating whether or not to believe her story. April decided that her best bet was to put on a really good show for them. In her mind, the thought back a few days ago to a doctor's office where she and Mark had been officially informed that Napoleon and Illya were dead. She replayed that moment in her mind, and imagined that it had been true. Suddenly her throat closed up with emotion, she choked, and her eyes filled with tears. As she started to sob, she managed to gasp out;

"Please don't shoot me, I was only looking, I tell you, he's a mean one. You don't say no to him more than once."

She crumpled on the grass, keeping the mental image of Napoleon and Illya being dead well in the forefront of her mind. To her relief, and also somewhat to her chagrin, she found it relatively easy to keep the tears flowing. The men were looking at each other uncomfortably.

"Well do you still want to shoot her?"

"She was still spying round the place."

"But look at her though. She's obviously scared of this guy of hers. She quivers like a jellyfish."

"A gentleman would take her into the kitchens, get old Anna to give her a cup of something until she calms down, and then send her on her way."

"Yeah, great idea that. Bring a stranger in off the street. Good one."

"Well you were going to do that anyway weren't you?"

"Yeah, to lock her up and find out what she's after, who she is spying for. Not to invite her in for afternoon tea and cookies on the lawn. One sugar with that ma'am or two?"

April's sobs were starting to die down now and she raised a tear-stained face.

"Wh.. wh..what are you going to do with me?"

"What are you planning to tell that boyfriend of yours?"

"What can I tell him? That you guys caught me and threatened to shoot me if you saw me anywhere near here ever again."

"Will that make him beat up on you?"

April stood up and nodded, wiping her eyes dry with the back of her hand.

"Of course, but what else can I do?"

The men looked at each other.

"Are you just a painted doll, or do you actually work for a living?"

"Of course I work for a living. What do you take me for?"

"Well then? What do you do?"

"I'm a beautician."

"A what?"

"I cut and style hair, I do make up, I manicure nails and I even undertake a massage now and again if I think the rewards are worth it."

She opened her bag and fished around for her Compaq, and started to `fix' her face to drive home the point. She was aware of the sudden discussion going on between the men. The leader grabbed her elbow.

"All right, we have a proposal to make. We shoot you now for spying on us, or you come inside with us of your own free will and we will keep you safe. The rules, you don't leave the house without permission, you provide your professional services to everyone in the house free of charge in return for room and board. If after one month we decide we like you, and you are trustworthy, you will be offered a permanent position within our…company. If not, you see the inside of that cozy cell we were just discussing."

"Sounds like a pretty one sided bargain to me." April muttered, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. The man shrugged.

"We are doing some pretty important work which we cannot afford to let anyone louse up."

"But what about my boyfriend?"

"You call him, and we listen in. You tell him its off between you and you have a better offer. If he comes around here after that we'll deal with him."

April thought once again of Napoleon and Illya, and imagined them lying side by side on a cold, lonely slab in someone's morgue. The image was enough to cause a tear to spill from her eye and down her cheek.

"Ok."

She was taken to the kitchen of the large house, through a side door where a little tubby woman was busily scraping potatoes. April was given a coffee, and led from there up two flights of stairs and into a study, that looked like anyone's study. A bright, airy room overlooking the back of the house. This was why she had been easily seen in that field out the back. From this room, the entire field and rear garden of the house could be viewed without anyone outside being aware of it. She was handed a telephone. She stared at it stupidly for a moment. She couldn't ring UNCLE's private number, that was top secret. If she rand their public number, these men would quickly put two and two together and learn she was an UNCLE agent. There would be no point in ringing Mark's home number, as he would be coming straight out here once he had finished his watch at headquarters. Who to ring? Suddenly it dawned on her. She dialed number.

William Del Floria jumped as his private telephone jangled out. He very seldom received a call on that line. Just family really. He picked it up. Knowing that whoever was ringing this number was not after the tailor's shop, he simply said

"Hello?"

"Uncle Bill! Hi! It's April!"

Del Floria was immediately aware that something important must be afoot. None of the agents would ring him on this number unless it was life and death. This was April Dancer. He guessed that she was not alone, or that this call was being monitored, so he determined to play along with whatever her scheme might be.

"Hello sweetheart. Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm great. I was wondering if Si is still with you? I need to speak to him urgently."

Del Floria had no idea who Si was, although he guessed it was probably April's partner Mark Slate.

"Can you hang on minute love? He's out the back. I'll have to go and fetch him in."

"Thanks Bill."

He swiftly locked the shop door, then entered his office where he knew he could speak on the UNCLE line without being overheard. He quickly got through to Waverly.

"Alexander? I have April Dancer on my private line. I think she is being monitored by someone. She needs to speak to Si urgently."

"I'll patch him through to your private line. Don't speak Bill, I'll warn Mark for you."

"Thanks Alex."

Waverly contacted Mark Slate swiftly and explained the setup. Mark picked up the phone and spoke as though he had been running.

"Hello darling."

"Si? It's me. It's no good Si, I can't come back to you anymore."

"Come again?" Mark asked, temporarily flummoxed.

"I'm tired of being your spy, and then being beaten up by you when your silly friends mess things up each time. It's not worth it Si. I got caught at that place you sent me to, but these guys have offered me a job and I've decided to take it. Free room and board in exchange for doing what I love, and no one will be beating up on me any longer."

Mark caught on.

"What makes you think I can't come over there and get you back?" he asked in a dangerous voice.

"You can try babe, but they'll be waiting for you with machine guns and bombs and lasers and everything. You'll be dead before you get two yards from the gate."

"So this is it is it? After all this time it comes to this? Not even a proper goodbye? Just a phone call and a veiled threat? You're my woman, don't ever forget that. I'll get you back somehow, see if I don't!"

"Look after yourself Si. You're good at that." April told her partner in a chilly tone of voice. "Give my love to Uncle Bill huh?"

She hung up.

At the dial tone, Mark replaced the receiver, and sat, staring at the phone for some time. As soon as he was free from watch duty, he needed to go and speak to Mister Waverly. Urgently. It seemed, however, that Mr. Waverly was already on his wavelength, for within a few minutes, Waverly himself came into the room. He locked the door behind himself, and turned facing the monitors.

"So Mr. Slate. Perhaps you will tell me what that call from Miss Dancer was all about."

Mark and April had already reported to their boss about their suspicions of a spy being within the building, and he now explained how he and April had begun to wonder a little about the nurse, Emma Linnet, and the reasons why. He explained how April had disguised herself in order to follow the young nurse, just to be on the safe side, and how April had then contacted him via communicator to explain that Miss Linnet had led her to a large property on Long Island, and that somehow April had become very uncomfortable about it. He had been planning to go down there later to join April and they had planned to check the place out properly, if only to exonerate Miss Linnet.

"Did you listen in on our call, sir?"

"Of course. How much information was she able to give you during the course of that conversation?"

Waverly was only too aware that section two agents generally developed their own private code-speak that they used when they needed to pass on vital information without an enemy knowing. Mark shrugged.

"High security set up on the grounds, laser sightings and everything. The men are armed with machine guns and explosives, and worse probably. She has been offered a job as a beautician and she has accepted. It's likely she had no choice but to accept."

"And you are her abusive lover? So if you do go in tonight, they'll be expecting you."

Mark nodded.

"They'll be waiting if I go tonight. If I go tomorrow night though…give her chance to find out whatever she needs to find out…"

Waverly nodded unhappily.

"A place of that nature with security that tight? It has to be…"

"THRUSH."

"Exactly."

Mark raised his eyes.

"Means that Emma Linnet is our mole after all."

"A mole…or a security leak anyway."

Mark frowned.

"You mean sir, that she might be going there without realizing it is THRUSH? She would have to be a fool not to realize it!"

Waverly grinned him.

"Not necessarily Mark. The girl is a nurse, after all. Not a trained spy and killer. Such a thing may not even have occurred to her. Just being there does not mean she is guilty. Miss Dancer will have to find the proof we need whilst she is in there. She has twenty-four hours, and then I am sending you and a small team in there to get her out."

Mark nodded unhappily. He knew April was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but knowing that she was sitting literally in the lion's den, and doomed to remain there for another full day did not sit well with him. If she put one foot out of line whilst searching for their proof, THRUSH would instantly realize who she was, and then she really would be in danger. And Mark was not in any position to help her. He could not watch her back for another twenty-four hours. So much could happen in that time. Perhaps he could use his time profitably in the meantime. Perhaps now might be a good time to get to know Miss Linnet a bit better?

One hour later, Mark was three miles away, dressed in his best casual, armed with a bunch of flowers, and knocking at the door of apartment eighty-seven. Miss Linnet opened the door, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Her eyes popped out of her head when she saw the identity of her visitor.

"Mark Slate? What are you doing here?"

"You seemed really upset today. I thought I'd come by in the hope of trying to cheer you up a bit? These are for you. I was on my way to my favourite café. Great little place does great British food… fish and chips, bangers and mash…hot tea! You'd be welcome to join me for a bite. No strings, just good company."

"I'm not dressed for eating out." She commented, uncertainly. Mark grinned.

"S'alright, you look great as you are. They don't mind what you wear so long as you are wearing something. So, coming?" He smiled cheerily. Emma warmed to him. She smiled back.

"Okay, thanks. Let me put these lovely flowers in some water, and I'll be with you."


	13. Napoleon's Disguise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya chooses Napoleon's disguise...

It was a pleasant stroll through the streets to Mark's favourite café which seemed to Emma to have been lifted straight out of a book, even down to the walls covered in photos of the sights of London; Tower bridge with the road raised mid-river, traffic lined up on either side waiting to cross. The Houses of Parliament fronting the Thames, Big Ben, the famous clock atop its tower beaming across the city, St Paul's Cathedral with its huge domed roof, rebuilt by Christopher Wren after the original building of the same name had burned to the ground during the great fire in 1666. A photo of Piccadilly Circus, the centre of a veritable spider's web of streets; buses, cars and pedestrians all vying with one another, jostling and getting nowhere quickly.

A photograph of Trafalgar Square taken sometime after the main rush of tourists had departed, the ever-present pigeons disturbed from their feasting, just taking to the air and frozen in time. Finally, pride of place on the rear wall of the café, the first sight to be seen on entering, a panoramic view of Buckingham Palace, taken from The Mall, the Victoria Monument in the foreground, glistening as the sun reflected off the gilded winged Victory atop the monument. Emma was enthralled. She had visited London once as a child with her grandparents, and some of these photos brought back long since forgotten memories of that week. Mark grinned at her.

"Almost feels like home." He said. "Let's sit down. What do you fancy?"

Emma studied the menu card with a half grin on her face.

"Bangers and Mash, Fish and Chips, chip butty…" she read aloud. "Mark, what's a Chip Butty?"

"Basically a chip sarnie." He replied. "A sandwich…on bread, usually or a large roll or bun. You can have sauces, salad on the side. More satisfying than it sounds, really. Probably pretty unhealthy too, but who cares?"

Emma smiled.

"Chip butty, side salad and a mug of hot sweet tea…is that right?"

"If that's what tickles your fancy, your word is my command." He replied, and giving her a wink, he got up and went to the counter to order their meal and pay. When he returned, he found her looking pensive.

"Are you all right?"

She nodded.

"I guess so. Mark, I know that section two agents are not supposed to get involved…but it does seem a bit harsh."

"Harsh for them? Or for the one who falls for a section two?"

"Well both I suppose, but I was merely being selfish. Thinking of me."

Mark nodded.

"It's not easy for us either you know. It's a trade-off we have to accept."

He was silent for a moment, watching her as she played with the corner of the tablecloth.

"You've fallen for Illya haven't you? Head over heels?"

She nodded, a single tear rolling down her nose.

"Even if he was still alive he wouldn't want me would he?"

"I dunno, but whether he would or not, he wouldn't deliberately show you anyway, being as he wasn't free to…do anything about it, if you know what I mean."

"He took me to dinner the other week you know. It was just an innocent thing, really. I'd had some bad news from home. Illya came into medical for some booster shots and found me crying. I suppose he felt sorry for me, and took me out to dinner to try and cheer me up."

"And it worked?"

"Did it just. I fell for him as you say, head over heels. Hook, line and sinker! But after dinner he walked me home, said goodnight and walked away. That was it. No goodnight kiss or anything else. He was just being nice to me because he felt sorry for me. And now you're doing the same thing. Buying me dinner because you feel sorry for me. I must be a really pathetic specimen."

Mark gave her a sympathetic smile.

"Maybe you lose your heart just a bit too easily, Emma, but I don't see anything pathetic about it. It's quite brave if you think about it. I mean, you've had your heart broken over Illya, and if you were to make the same mistake over me, the same thing would happen again and for the same reasons. You may find you break your heart several times, but it means that you are not afraid to take a chance on love, and when the right person does come along, the heartbreaks will all be worth it."

Emma smiled at him.

"Now why couldn't someone have reminded me of that a few days or even weeks ago?"

"Emma, we do care about you at UNCLE. We risk our lives on a daily basis, many of us, and you help to patch us up again. It doesn't hurt to sit and have a good heart to heart with a good friend occasionally if you have something weighing you down. The benefits are manifold…not the least of which is the fact that if you talk to someone at UNCLE about your troubles, especially if they are connected with people or events at work there is less likelihood of sensitive information getting out to people who don't deserve it."

Her eyes widened.

"You're serious about that aren't you?"

Mark frowned slightly.

"Of course. Why do you think we have our own psychology department? The psych specialists are not just there for the field agents. They are for everyone who works for UNCLE because of the security risks involved in talking to anyone outside about things. We don't even talk to our close families about UNCLE worries."

Emma stared at him, her eyes as wide as saucers.

"Er…I think I may have made a…that is to say…oh no!"

Their food arrived at that moment. Mark thanked the waitress and handed Emma her napkin.

"What's happened Emma?"

"I'm sorry Mark, suddenly I've lost my appetite."

"Hey, come on kiddo. If you tell me what has happened, maybe I can try and help."

"It was about six weeks ago or more, no, about two and a half months ago, about a week after Illya took me for that meal. I was feeling down because I'd fallen for him, but apart from an occasional nod in passing, it was as though I didn't exist. One day it was too much and I was really miserable as I walked home so I decided to go down to Central park to try and clear my head a bit. I ran into an old school friend. A girl I knew in high school. She and her parents moved to Brooklyn when she was around fourteen, and they moved away some time after we graduated. But Livvy Pag and I got really close while we were together."

"And you two got talking?"

Emma nodded, her eyes troubled.

"She asked me what was the matter, so I told her that I was in love with a guy at work who didn't even know I existed. She sympathized and we got chatting."

"Did you tell her anything about UNCLE?"

"I told her I worked for UNCLE as a nurse, but that was all. She invited me home for coffee. So I went. We drank coffee and reminisced about our schooldays, and I started to get really relaxed. I mean it was just so nice to be with her again. I guess I fell asleep, and when I woke up it was quite late, so she called for a cab to take me home."

"And that was all that happened?"

Emma nodded.

"I never told her anything worth a fig, truly."

Mark nodded.

"Have you visited her since?"

"Yeah, once a week now I take a cab to Long Island to visit her, and take a cab home again. Livvy pays, she seems to be pretty well off these days."

"Livvy Pag? That's an unusual name."

Emma smiled. Mark's relaxed demeanor putting her at her ease at last.

"Oh, that's what we called her at school. Her full name is Olivia May Del Paglio."

MFU MFU

Chief Tarasov was eager to do what he could to help, and he offered Illya the use of an UNCLE helicopter to take them the first leg of their journey, wherever they wanted to go. When they learned finally, from research their first destination, they accepted the offer with gratitude. They would be able to hire transport of some sort once they were there and on the ground, they were sure.

Illya sat in the chopper, with his eyes closed, to all intents and purposes sleeping, although how he could possibly be asleep with the noise of the chopper, Napoleon had no idea. Anyone else and he might have decided he might have been praying; but not Illya. He had seen and suffered too much to have any faith in prayer these days. Napoleon was certain of that much. Napoleon glanced at his friend. How was Illya feeling, returning to Kyiv after all these years? Napoleon was aware that if he had to come back to what had always been home, Illya would have preferred to come alone. The blond agent was taciturn at the best of times, especially about his private life or his past. He suspected that one of the things that had been concerning Illya the most over the past day or two was the knowledge that having Napoleon Solo along would be most disconcerting, and he had been clearly battling his need for Napoleon's company and assistance with his need for keeping his family and past strictly private.

The chopper set them down on a broad empty stretch of highway, wished them luck and took off quickly. The two men looked around, seeing nothing notable in either direction.

"So which direction is Kyiv?"

Illya frowned, looked at his watch, and then up at the sky, but the sun was hidden behind a thick blanket of cloud.

"We want to travel westward. Don't you have your compass in your watch Napoleon?"

"Oh yes, so I do!" Napoleon grinned and opened the watch face to reveal the tiny compass inside. We go thataway!" he declared, pointing. The two men started walking.

Just twenty minutes later they were standing at the top of a low gentle rise and looking across at the vast city of Kyiv.

"Do you know whereabouts we are going my friend?"

Illya nodded mutely and started to walk again.

As they walked, Napoleon began to suffer in his disguise. The fat suit he was wearing consisted of layers and layers of extra padding which as well as being rather heavy, was becoming insufferably hot in the sun. His face started to redden, and he couldn't help but stop and rest after a while. Illya bit back his impatience, knowing that his friend's suffering was real and not very pleasant. In spite of his own feelings, he couldn't help being slightly amused, although he tried hard to hide it, knowing Napoleon would not appreciate the humour of the situation right now. Napoleon wiped his brow theatrically.

"I really need to cut down on all that chocolate and pastry, Illya." He commented, rolling his eyes, "…and get back into the gym. I didn't realize how out of shape I was becoming."

Illya thought of half a dozen amusing comebacks but he fought the temptation, deciding that sympathy would be more apropos under the circumstances. Napoleon did not need to be here suffering at all, after all.

"At least all that extra weight and insulation is keeping you safe. Me too for that matter."

Napoleon nodded. That was the largest reason it had been decided that his profile and outline had had to change as well as his facial features. Napoleon Solo walking down the road alone did not mean that his partner was alive. But Napoleon Solo walking down the road with Mikhail would have suggested strongly that Mikhail might be Illya after all. For now, it did not matter that the world believed Illya dead. What mattered was that everyone believed that Mikhail was still alive.

As they walked through the city streets, Napoleon glanced sideways at his partner. It seemed that events seemed to be constantly conspiring to remind Illya of his loss. Now, he was having to pretend to actually be Mikhail, knowing that his brother would never again show up to fend for himself. Mikhail was back in Moscow, laying on a slab in the UNCLE morgue. Napoleon wondered, once all of this was finally over, how long it would take Illya to recover from it all? Losing Mikhail, learning Mikhail was THRUSH, almost being killed himself, then being smuggled away from New York, knowing that everyone, all of his friends and colleagues would now believe that he too was dead. And now, more outrageous than anything else, having to pretend that he was Mikhail himself, the brother that he now hated as well as loved for all the evil he had done and had tried to do. Who knew what other indignities still lay ahead before all of this was finally behind them?

Napoleon thought of his own family. To his older brother and sister, he was the genius younger brother, the one who had lived up to all expectations and then vastly exceeded them. He knew how greatly he was loved by his family, his mother, and his brother and sister, and his nephews and nieces adored him. They thought the world of Uncle Leo, and saw him all too infrequently. What were they going through now? Waverly had insisted that the deception had to be complete if it was to work, that his family were to be told the truth only once it was safe to do so. Certainly that could not be yet. What were they suffering, at his loss? Would they ever forgive him when he finally got back to them to apologies?

Illya glanced his way and saw the hint of wetness in his friend's eyes and clapped his shoulder.

"I'm sorry Napoleon."

Napoleon frowned.

"What for?"

"I am forgetting that this has to be as hard for you as it is for me. You have a family to make everything up to later. They will forgive you?"

"Of course they will Illya…eventually. I suppose it depends what Mr. Waverly tells them."

"He's as tough as an old boot, and as thick skinned as a whale, Napoleon, but he knows how to be sensitive when he needs to be. He'll smooth the way as best he can, I know it."

Napoleon nodded, and tried to put his concerns to the back of his mind. For now, finding a certain elderly lady was the first priority. He followed as Illya turned down a side road and about half way down turned again into a very narrow road with rather ramshackle houses that looked like they had been built in the last century of odds and ends. There was a strange look on Illya's face as he paused outside one of the houses and knocked on the door.


	14. Undercover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April goes undercover to see what she can learn...

April was led through the large house, up several flights of stairs and shown into a room just under the eaves with a view of the street at the front of the property. She looked round the room itself. It was a reasonable size and very much in the style of a rich girl's boudoir, with lace and silken draperies, fluffy rugs underfoot and a fancy dressing table with everything a girl might want seemingly already in place. April sniffed.

"Rather extravagant isn't it? What will the owner of all this say when she comes back?"

"She won't be back. Believe me she won't. Now there are clothes in the wardrobe that should fit you fine. Anything you need let Jackson know."

"Jackson?"

"Until you earn our trust, he is your minder. He will make sure you toe the line, and he will see that you have everything you need to fulfill your new role with us."

April nodded.

"So which of you is Jackson?"

Suddenly, a massive figure filled the doorway, and Jackson entered. He was six and a half feet tall, and built like a quarterback. His handsome face was marred by a scar that ran down his left cheek, puckering the skin around his eye giving him a permanent frown. His black hair was cut very short, army style, and he was dressed entirely in black. Black trousers, black shirt, black tie, black jacket, black shoes and socks. Somehow, April received the impression his underclothes would also be all in black. The overall impression was of efficiency and sheer presence.

Her `captors' vanished leaving April standing in the middle of the room with Jackson in the doorway staring at her. She removed her jacket and opened the wardrobe door. The clothes should fit fine, as she had been told, but the styles were more in line with hooking than anything else, she surmised. There must surely be something here that would say `attractive masseuse' without throwing out the `come and get it' message that these outfits presented. Mini-skirts were not really her thing, although she had frequently worn them in the line of duty; but these looked more like belts than skirts. She shook her head. None of these clothes would be any good for the role she was being asked to fulfill here. She would have to complain.

"Excuse me, Jackson?"

"Yuh?"

"They said I was to tell you if something was wrong. These clothes look like they belong to a prostitute. I can't wear anything here. I don't wish to be rude, but everything here is brassy and trashy and far too revealing. I am a masseuse, not a hooker."

"So what do you want?"

"Something rather more attractive and slightly less revealing. The idea is to throw a hint of promise, not to give everyone a complete eyeful."

"I'm locking your door while I go downstairs. I'll be back in five minutes."

He left the room, and sure enough, he locked the door after himself. April sat at the dressing table and looked at her new face in the mirror, still hardly believing that it was really herself looking back at her. What would they make of her rejection of the entire wardrobe? Ungrateful? This room was as over-the-top as the clothes themselves. The room of someone hoping to lure and seduce. The room of a high-class hooker. So where was she now?

Within five minutes, Jackson was back, and this time his face wore a slightly warmer expression than before. He held the door open for her and led her downstairs to a large room on the first floor. This room was clearly a treatment room of sorts. Almost like a doctor's treatment room with the high, cushioned trolley with the raised head-section, a table with two chairs, a full length mirror, a sofa and a cabinet. A door along the right hand wall led to a room in basic green décor, with a single sized bed, a bedside table painted white and a wardrobe. This time the clothing was modern and attractive, still slightly shorter than her own usual style, but modest and discreet. She nodded and turned to Jackson with a disarming smile on her face.

"This is more like it!" she said with feeling. "This is the room and style of a masseuse. Thank you. If you don't mind, I'll change right away into something less restrictive than this thing I'm wearing. Then we'll see what I can do to earn them."

Jackson did not move and she turned to him with her blouse undone, her bra peeping through the gap.

"Do you really intend to stand there and watch me changing my clothes? Because if so, perhaps you ought to return to minding the owner of that decadent room upstairs."

Jackson's eyes twinkled.

"I'll be right outside your bedroom door." He told her, and vanished, closing the door behind him.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

After knocking a second time, the door opened a crack and a melancholy eye and a nose peered through the crack, framed by wavy dark hair. Napoleon listened as Illya gabbled away in Ukrainian, nodding slightly, and then spoke again, gesturing earnestly. The single eye was joined by a second, and presently the door opened wider to reveal an untidy woman of uncertain years clutching in her hands what looked like a small tablecloth. The woman shook her head, and gabbled away again. Napoleon heard his partner give a sigh and the woman ducked her head politely and closed the door. Illya closed his eyes for a moment, looking to Napoleon as though he were attempting to control some powerful inner emotion before he looked up. When he finally met Napoleon's eye, he was every bit the ice prince of reputation.

"That woman was a neighbour. She regarded Izolda Ivanovna as a close friend. She is the one who found the body Napoleon. It turns out that Izolda Ivanovna is dead. She died yesterday."

"And the child?"

"She believed I am Mikhail. She told me that my friends came by the night before and picked up the child as per my instructions. She says she was with the old lady when they came. She showed me the letter they gave the old lady putting the child into their care. It was signed, apparently, by Mikhail."

"Did it look like his signature?"

"Identical."

"Would he hand his own daughter into the care of someone else?"

Illya shook his head.

"I would never believe it of him…but then I would never have believed he was capable of recommending my execution."

"Illya, would the Mikhail you knew have voluntarily handed his child over to someone else to raise?"

"No. Definitely not."

"Could it have been a faked signature?"

Illya frowned.

"I suppose it could, but why fake a signature to steal a child? What good would a child be to anyone?"

"I don't know Illya. THRUSH might be interested in your brother's child. But if they know Mikhail is alive, why steal her from him?"

Illya looked at him.

"Leverage?"

"Why, if Mikhail was already theirs? Unless…"

"Unless they had a suspicion that Mika was not theirs after all? Napoleon, Moran started off wondering if Mikhail Kuryakin was dead. As far as they were concerned he had been missing ever since that base was destroyed, so they thought he had died with it. Suddenly, he reappears in Moscow, being chased by UNCLE. Moran contacts THRUSH Central, telling them the good news that Mika is alive and well, and had been posing as his brother in order to infiltrate UNCLE. Now, say THRUSH were already slightly suspicious of Mika, something he has said, or done unconsciously perhaps; now his reappearance causes a concern. They decide the best way to control him would be…"

"To kidnap his daughter!"

Illya nodded. Napoleon frowned.

"If we are right, then the letter they showed the old lady was a fake. If that was a fake, then the other might have been a fake as well."

"So you think…just in case I got wind of any of this…a letter from my brother condemning me to death would be enough to keep me away and stop me from investigating?"

The two men stared at each other. Illya looked down at himself, and then at his partner's new rotund form. Napoleon grinned at him.

"Well my dear Mikhail, perhaps a spot of infiltration might be in order for the pair of us after all?"


	15. Old friends and New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon and Illya pay a call on a very old friend.

Illya stared at his friend for a moment, and then looked down the row of houses to the one at the other end of the row. Its whitewash was old and peeling now, several of the windows were cracked and lined, one missing completely and boarded up. The front door faced directly on to the street, painted the colour of dirty mustard. Napoleon followed him, frowning, but saying nothing. This was Illya's show after all. He stood behind and watched and waited as Illya knocked on this door sharply. After a moment, the door opened widely and an elderly man peered out at them. He stared at his visitors, rolled his eyes and was about to close the door without a single word when Illya reached out a hand and held the door before the man could close it completely.

"Please." Illya said in Russian, for Napoleon's benefit. "I need to talk with you."

"I'm done with you, Kuryakin!" the old man spat, aiming a feeble kick in Illya's direction. Illya did not move, and barely flinched as the man's foot impacted his right ankle. With Illya's hand braced against the door, the man could not close it, so he stood, glaring at his two visitors. Napoleon was slightly surprised. Whoever this old man was, he clearly had no love for Mikhail.

"I just wanted to introduce you to my very oldest friend. This man I knew at college, and he has since saved my life…Boris Abramovich Popov."

Napoleon watched the shock and almost simultaneous expressions of realization that passed over the old man's face at hearing that name. He opened the door wide and gestured with his head for them to enter.

Inside the house, Napoleon found that it was surprisingly light and airy. Not very large, to be sure, but the back of the house had been altered to take full advantage of the view across the sizeable rear garden, and light streamed in through the enlarged window. The interior of the house was simple and clean, but surprisingly elegant. A pleasant contrast to the exterior. They sat on hard chairs next to the rear window, and Napoleon glanced out at the vegetables and berries that were growing there.

"You are keeping the garden well, Boris." Illya said with a smile. The man shook his head.

"I never thought I would see your face around here again my dear boy." He said. "I thought this place was a…" he petered out at the look in Illya's face, and then glanced briefly up at Napoleon and nodded.

"So who is your friend really, Illya?"

"This is Napoleon Solo. We work together."

"Aaah." The man nodded. Illya turned to Napoleon with a smile and spoke, keeping to Russian.

"This is the real Boris Abramovich Popov, Napoleon, but he hasn't used that name for a long time. I have always known him as Uncle Dimitry." Illya's eyes dropped. "I named my son Dimitry in his honour."

Dimitry's hand rested on Illya's shoulder for a moment and he smiled up at Napoleon.

"Illya's great grandfather found me as a child living on the streets after my parents died in a flu epidemic that wiped out our village. He brought me home and cared for me. They called me Dimitry because at the time I was too weak to be able to speak, even to tell them my name. I became Dimitry Kuryakin. I must say I have always preferred Dimitry to the name Boris!"

Napoleon grinned. No wonder Illya had been rather subdued, coming to this place if it held people and memories from his mysterious past. Boris shuffled into the kitchen and a moment later shuffled back again with a small tray carrying three small cups of vodka. They each took a sip and sat back. Dimitry regarded his visitors thoughtfully.

"So what brings you back here now, young Illyusha? Especially in the manner of that brother of yours."

"For the time being I am Mikhail."

"And where is Mikhail?"

"Dead."

Dimitry's eyebrows shot up.

"Really? I wish I could say I am sorry, Illyusha, for your sake, but…" he shook his head sadly. "Something happened to him. He changed. He joined the rebels, I know that. Although I didn't agree with him I could understand it, but he fell in with bad company I reckon, and he changed."

Napoleon was aching to ask a question, but mindful of Illya's proposed cover for him, as a mute man, he refrained for the time being and hoped that Illya would somehow read his mind. Illya swigged down his drink and stared into the cup as if searching for something.

"I haven't spoken to my brother since…well for years. He married I understand."

"Yes, to young Anna Kossov. Remember her, boy? She was always crazy about Mika, but he treated her harshly, made unreasonable demands of her… was entirely too strict and arrogant in my opinion. It's no wonder she died in the end. Mika just pursued his new vendetta and left her to take care of the child on her own, without any help. He sent her money of course, but only enough to pay rent and buy food. If it hadn't been for her babushka, old Izolda Ivanovna who knows what might have happened? Izolda left her own home to move into that place a few doors away to be with Anna. She was too old and feeble to be able to do very much, but she was a moral support at least."

"The child…Mikhail and Anna had a child?" Illya asked innocently. Dimitry grinned at him.

"You won't fool me that way Illyusha. I know you of old. You already know of the little girl don't you? If Mika is truly dead, then I assume you are here to claim the child?"

"Something like that."

"All the best with that one then. You know I had an altercation with Mikhail the last time he was here. I wanted to help his wife, but she refused to let me. She just said Mika would be angry if he knew and she couldn't bear anything to happen to me. I tried to reason with him, but he reminded me, as if I could ever forget it, that I am not a true Kuryakin, and I have no right to have anything at all to do with his family unless he allows it. He swore he would have me shot if I went anywhere near them."

"Mika was always so gentle!" Illya said softly, his face in his hands. "Dimitry, what happened to his daughter? The woman who has taken over the house told me that some people came and took the child away a couple of days ago claiming that Mika had sent them. She showed me the letter they gave the old lady. It certainly looked like his writing."

The old man nodded sadly.

"Whoever these people are that your brother got himself involved with, they had him well and truly convinced. I have no doubt that it was genuine, Illya if that is what you are wondering. He mentioned to me that his new friends as he described them would even take care of his daughter for him if anything happened to him."

Dimitry stared at Illya and shook his head.

"Wait, boy, you're walking the streets dressed as Mikhail. You even have found a way to change your eye colour to match his. You wouldn't be doing that unless you are trying to convince someone that he is still alive, correct?"

Napoleon nodded, and Illya half smiled.

"Correct. So it seems our assumptions were mostly wishful thinking Napoleon." He turned back to the old man.

"Thank you for keeping the place looking so good, Uncle Dimitry. I have missed you."

The two men hugged tightly, and when they parted they were both slightly damp-eyed.

"Remember, you are welcome here any time Illyusha. After all, the place is yours…come to think of it…they are all yours, the whole row…"

Illya shushed him with a quick shake of his head; and glancing quickly at Illya's strangely silent companion, Dimitry nodded and gave a brief wink.

"Give my love to Elinor and young Dimitri Illyich. How old is he now?"

Illya did not reply at first, and his companions both noticed that he had gone white. Dimitry glanced at Napoleon with a raised eyebrow and Napoleon replied by shaking his head slowly and deliberately. Dimitry's eyes opened wide with shock. He clasped his nephew on the shoulder.

"I'm so sorry Illyusha…I had no idea! I'm so sorry! How? When?"

"D. in the Danube*…both of them about three years ago."

Illya groped blindly for the door, and stopped as Uncle Dimitry called out.

"Wait! Sorry boy, but if you want everyone round here to keep believing that you are Mikhail, then you need to leave this place aggressively. Take care Illya, and I truly hope you find young Katarina. She really is a delightful child."

They shook hands, and leaving the house, Illya remembered to slam the door shut loudly, causing one of the broken windows to shatter completely and fall out. Illya rolled his eyes and stalked away down the street, Napoleon hurrying after him.

Once they were truly alone, Napoleon muttered in a low voice,

"That was your childhood home wasn't it? It can't have been easy going back there."

Illya did not reply. Napoleon wasn't surprised.

"He's a lovely old man."

"Yes."

"and you still own the house…and all the others in that row?"

Illya stopped and gave his partner the full icy glare.

"Stop fishing my friend."

"Why, Illya? I'm here after all."

"Because you're fishing in the wrong pond Napoleon. There are no minnows in there for you to catch. Only sharks."

Napoleon nodded reluctantly. His curiosity for his partner's past increased. Illya was aware of it, he was sure, but he rarely tossed more than a subtlest of hints about his past. Napoleon knew he had had hard times as a child, but if Illya truly owned that entire row of houses, then there must have been something of wealth in his family, right? Apparently though, even now Illya was not about to furnish him with even the tiniest clue or titbit.

"So Mikhail's personality changed dramatically once he joined THRUSH."

"We were likely wrong about those letters being fakes, but that does not preclude the possibility that THRUSH have stolen his child in the effort to control Mikhail better. After all, we have seen that they have never been above using their agents' kids as bargaining pawns."

"So the obvious answer then is for you to storm into the THRUSH satrap in Moscow and be all angry and ask everyone what the hell are they playing at…?"

Illya nodded.

"Still want to come along and play with us?"

Napoleon nodded.

"Let's go and play."

MFU MFU MFU

April made her appearance at her door dressed in skinny leather slacks and a long, voluminous white shirt which she wore very loosely tucked in, and a pair of silver, low heeled slippers on her feet. Her long curly blond locks she had combed and tied into a single long ponytail over her right shoulder. She had turned the lights down in the main room and put some soft music on the radio. She smiled at her minder.

"Are you to be my first customer, Jackson?"

He shook his head and stared impassively at her. She nodded.

"Very well, take me wherever I am required to serve my purpose."

He led her down to the main part of the house and announced her before letting her into the sizeable drawing room. She looked round and smiled.

The room was grandly furnished, with even a white grand piano in one corner beside a pair of French windows that opened out on to a wide lawn. The room was peopled with men it seemed, older men for the most part, aged between fifty and seventy, two or three younger men and one single woman sat at the piano, idly playing scales with one hand as though bored.

They all looked up as one as she entered the room, and she could almost hear them draw in a collective breath.

"Hi!" she called round with a bubbly smile. "I don't mean to interrupt anything, but I am your new live-in masseuse and beautician, and I've been given the green room on the first floor to use as a studio…or if you would like I can give you a first rate massage discreetly right here. Just send for me whenever you wish."

Rather than leave the room as she suspected they expected her to do, she moved to stand beside the window, waiting to be useful, watching and saying nothing. After a moment the woman at the piano stopped her scales and joined her at the window, standing facing out into the garden.

"You made quite an entrance!"

"I'm not exactly here by choice, but I can see that it could prove be to my advantage. These friends of yours have certainly got my darned boyfriend off my back…or I should say ex-boyfriend."

"Fed up with him?"

"Fed up with his tongue…and his fists when he's angry."

"Sounds like a man to keep away from."

April grinned ruefully.

"Doesn't help that he's so good looking. Just one glimpse of those puppy-dog eyes and I melt, regardless of my firm intentions."

"He can get you to do whatever he wants you to do?"

"Between the eyes and the tongue and the fists, yes. Pretty much. I'm not sure if I am here as a prisoner or as a refugee, but I am quite prepared to do my part here. Am I supposed to come out and advertise my services and wait for custom, or do I simply take the initiative and seize the shoulders of someone that looks tense?"

The young woman gazed at her fully for the first time, and April could see the steeliness in her eyes.

"I should say you ought to decide that for yourself."

April nodded.

"That's what I thought. By the way, in case you don't know, my name is April. April Sweet. What is yours?"

"Call me Livvy."

April smiled and cast her eye around the room. Three of the men were seated, two were seated on hard chairs and looking uncomfortable. The other was standing, or rather, pacing up and down as he listened to various negative reports from his companions. He was becoming more and more heated. April walked up to the large antique oak desk and picked up the chair from behind it. She carried the chair to the rug in the middle of the room and turned it around so that the back of the chair was facing the room. With a smile, April ushered this impassioned man to the chair and urged him to sit on it.

"Please sir, sit and lean on the back of the chair whilst I massage your shoulders for you."

He seemed surprised, but he obediently sat astride the chair and leaned forward against the back of it whilst April removed his jacket and started expertly massaging his shoulders. She was amused to note that although their discussion continued, he seemed altogether calmer and more relaxed as he felt the tight knots in his shoulders and neck massaged away. April listened carefully to all that was being discussed, but was careful to keep her face strictly neutral and her gaze firmly fixed upon her patient. When she was through, the man said nothing; merely gave her a nod and continued with his meeting. April looked round the room once more, and spotting another potential customer, one of the men sitting on the sofa was fidgeting and continually shuffling his feet and crossing and uncrossing hos legs. She caught his eye and smiled at him, then knelt on the floor in front of him, removed his shoes and socks, and started to massage his feet. The man seemed extremely surprised, but his fidgeting stopped immediately, and she could feel the tension leaving him.

She worked on all of the men in the room, massaging shoulders, arms, feet, and gave one man a full head massage. She could almost hear him purring his pleasure. Livvy was watching her the entire time, and after almost three hours, she caught April's eye and gestured that it was time for them both to leave the room.

April followed her upstairs and into the room that had been set aside for her own use. Livvy sat on the edge of the couch and faced the newcomer.

"Well you have the men pretty convinced it seems. I don't want a massage. What can you do for me?"

"Cutting and styling hair, facial and skin treatments, manicure, pedicure, fashion, diet and fitness advice…"

"Quite a talented little doll we have found here!" Livvy sounded edgy, possibly suspicion, possibly envy? April was uncertain of the cause of the young woman's hostility. She shook her head.

"I'm a talented beautician, but I assure you that my talents begin and end with that. I am a hopeless cook, I am awful at maths, I always have been. I couldn't organize a bun-fight in a bakery."

"You could do a full make-over job on me if I ordered it?"

"Sure if it's what you want."

"Completely change my style and make me attractive?"

April frowned as if puzzled.

"Make you attractive? You are attractive now. I can make you look different if you want me to do that, but that sounds more like disguising your true identity. A Makeover is about bringing out all of your best features and getting people to focus on those rather than on any negative points."

"I have been told I am handsome. Handsome? That's a word to describe a man not a woman. I would rather be described as beautiful, pretty or even attractive. Handsome makes me sound too masculine."

"So what constitutes beauty to you?"

"You…actually." Livvy confessed. "I always dreamed of having hair like that, and…"

April sat beside her.

"Hair is nothing. That can be altered with wigs or extensions, dyes and perms. But you know, beauty is not all about what you look like on the outside."

"Really?"

"Really. Listen, for a start, a woman like me is only attractive to men who like blonds. Many men are convinced that blond women are generally brainless, and they prefer brunettes. Many men go for the sexy type of woman, with rounded curves…Marilyn Monroe curvy, but others prefer women to be athletic, slim and lithe, fewer curves but more active…variations of female stereotypes are endless and they are all attractive to someone. Some men prefer their women to be fat…fatness is considered beautiful in some countries you know. If you think you are ugly, then your facial expressions, body language and everything will betray that fact, and you won't be attractive to anyone regardless of what you look like."

"And if I am convinced I am really gorgeous to look at, I would show it by being confident, and not being afraid to show off a bit…right?"

"That's it. In terms of your physical appearance, you would be attractive to some people, but whether they would be attracted to you as a person would depend first on your projected personality and convictions, and second on your opinion of yourself."

Livvy nodded and went to look at herself in the mirror.

"Handsome…I suppose a handsome woman is not an ugly one is it?"

"Definitely not. It's getting late. If you want, in the morning I could give you a makeover…a partial one, tweak your hairstyle a bit to show off the shape of your face better, give you some different ideas about the styles of clothes you could wear and look fabulous in…"

Livvy nodded.

"Very well, in the morning we'll see what you can do with hair…"

Left alone at last, April smiled at Jackson, once more parked outside her door, and closed it firmly. She collapsed on to the bed, fully dressed, wondering what the new day would bring.

Downstairs in the study, Livvy was standing with her back to the window, regarding the three men in front of her.

"So Liv'" said one at last. "What did you make of her? Is she who she says she is?"

"Well Chivers, she knows how to do a good massage. Your visitors all said that. I quizzed her about make-overs and feminine beauty, and everything she said made a lot of sense. She could well be. The only way to know if she is truly a beautician is to…er…"

Chivers grinned.

"Let her loose on someone? Well why don't you let her loose on you? You have that function to go to tomorrow afternoon. What better time to test her mettle?"

Livvy looked annoyed.

"Look I was playing the part to do you guys a favour. I don't need any damned make-over to help me get ready for an Embassy function."

Chivers exchanged looks with his two companions. They all nodded, grinning slightly. The oldest of the three, an upright man with graying temples and wearing a rather loud bow tie that clashed horribly with his jacket smiled at her and patted her on the head, which made her grind her teeth.

"Whatever you think makes no difference, Liv. Consider yourself under orders to let this girl April do her thing on you. You can judge for yourself if she turns out to be talented."

Livvy looked furious, but under the circumstances, she really had no choice.

"If she botches it all up, dad, you will be the one to foot the bill for putting everything right again."

"Just make sure you get started early enough so that she will not make you late if she does turn out to be a dud. That's all for now."

Livvy left the room, muttering under her breath; "Glad I could be of assistance. Goodnight to you too!"

The next morning it was still dark outside her window when there was a loud banging on her door and shouts for her to hurry and get dressed. Sighing at the early hour, April dragged herself out of bed and wrapped a bathrobe around her naked body and opened the door. Jackson and Livvy were outside. April blinked.

"What are you doing up at this ungodly hour? Even the birds are still tucked up in bed!"

"Funny." Livvy replied sarcastically. "I have to be out of here by nine today, so you have to do my hair and everything now."

"Is it that urgent?"

"Look, I have to be at the em…er…somewhere important today, acting as a hostess, and I am under orders to look the part. I have no idea how to do that. You have to help me."

"Okay." April tried to rub away the sleepiness from her eyes. "It would help enormously if I am allowed to know where you are going? I mean the type of people you are likely to be with. Is it a bunch of businessmen? Show-business people? Lawyers? All men or mixed?"

Livvy sighed.

"Probably some of all of those and more. World leaders too I don't doubt, Ambassadors…Apparently I have to look the part, top up drinks, be danced with, laugh at unfunny jokes and generally make sure that people have a nice time."

April grinned wryly.

"You don't look like you volunteered for this duty, Livvy."

"No. I'm not the hostess type. I'm an engineer. You would fit right in, but you are still on probation. So I suggest you make me look the part and give me some pointers at how to behave."

The next three hours, April dyed Livvy's shoulder length dark hair, giving it a slightly dark auburn hue, washed it and restyled it, giving it choppy layers and set it in rollers to give it height and body. She made her sit under a dryer whilst she gave the other a facial, a manicure and a pedicure. She finished by applying make- up.

"What are you wearing?"

"They have brought in a selection for me to choose from."

"Need any help?"

By the time Livvy was ready to leave, she was wearing a stunning white trouser-suit with a pale blue spangly blouse. In her arms she carried her evening gown for later, a figure-hugging dress in emerald green with lace and sequins that set off the highlights in her hair. She smiled broadly at April.

"Thank you April. You did good."

When the party left, April was left in the house with Jackson, still determined to act like a genial guard-dog, and the elderly woman who worked in the kitchens. How was she to get a message to Mark in time? She was aware he would be here today to get her out whatever happened, but by then it might be too late to check out whatever was going on. Was it worth knocking Jackson over the head in order to affect her escape? What if he subsequently recovered and sent out a warning? What were they up to? Somehow she would have to try and find out. To do that she needed to get Jackson off his guard. How to do that? Did he have a softer side she could appeal to?

MFU MFU

Mark Slate was wearing dirty and very smelly overalls, thick rubber boots and industrial strength rubber gloves that reached up to his elbows. He needed them too. He was standing ankle deep in something very smelly, his shoulders alone showing above the level of the road. He was wielding a set of plumber's rods into the depths of the tunnel, all the while, one eye was planted firmly on the large house where he knew his partner was currently languishing. The intelligence she had had sent over to him about the place troubled him, and he was determined that if she needed him, he would be there, whatever Mr. Waverly said.

It was some time before the gates opened, and a two limousines drove out one after the other, and then the gate closed firmly after them. He frowned to himself. How many people would be left in that house? Scientists for the most part, right? Any THRUSH bigwigs were likely in those limousines. He removed a glove and fished for his communicator.

"Open channel D. Section three…request a follow and observe on two black stretch limos that are heading towards Deer Park Avenue. I'm keeping watch on agent Dancer's location. Out."

He put the device in his pocket and replaced his glove, and went back to his plunging, with a look of distaste on his lips. He would give it a little time, then he's chance it alone.

April failed to engage Jackson in conversation. He allowed her to leave her room; in fact, he allowed her to go anywhere in the house she wanted to, but always he followed her like a shadow.

She failed to persuade him to have a drink with her of anything alcoholic, although he agreed to a coffee. He ruined all her cherished hopes of sneaking something into his coffee by insisting on making it himself for the two of them. She sighed and admitted defeat, cradling her coffee in her hands and smiled into it, curling herself up on the sofa.

"Do you have a radio around here? A record player? A TV set even?"

He shook his head and swallowed the last of his coffee and went back to folding his arms across his chest, like a bouncer. April rolled her eyes and giggled at him.

"Don't you ever relax? How far do you think I'm gonna get if I did try and escape from here? Can we at least talk? I'm bored just sitting around doing nothing. At least Si was capable of vocalization from time to time. Sometimes it was even intelligible."

"Very well, what do you want to talk about? Philosophy? Politics? Religion? Or do you just talk about hair and fashion?"

April frowned at him.

"There's no need to be rude. Besides, I said I want to talk, not argue. All those subjects arouse base passions from my experience, and I'm not in the mood to have a session like that. Don't you ever just chat? About inane things? The weather? The price of porridge? How the Jets or the Yankees are doing? Tell me Jackson, is that your family name or is it your given name?"

The large man almost grinned but managed to stifle it.

"Neither. It's a nickname. I come from Jacksonville."

"Oh, really? Funny, I've never been to Florida. So are your family still out there?"

"No, my father is dead and my mother is in Jamaica."

"Right."

April grinned at him.

"Any brothers or sisters?"

"Yes."

"Would you care to enlarge on that? No, scratch that, how many brothers do you have?"

"Fifty-four."

"Okay, will you try and be serious?"

This time Jackson did grin at her.

"I thought you didn't want to have a serious discussion? You said you wanted to talk inanities. I can do that all day if you want."

April shook her head.

"Why do you do this?"

He frowned dangerously.

"Do what?"

"Idiot. I mean act as a guard dog for a helpless young woman when you are probably more intelligent than most of these guys here. You could do anything you want for a living."

"Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know. But surely there could be a more satisfying way for you to make a living than this. Not that I mind. You are much better to look at, and a better conversationalist than a real guard dog would have been!"

Jackson looked intently at her for a few moments.

"I have a question for you. A serious one. This ex-lover of yours…Si did you call him? If he is so very violent and abusive, why did you never leave him?"

"Oh that's simple. I love him."

"You love him? An abusive, violent obsessive? You do know he is still determined to get you back don't you?"

April nodded.

"I never doubted it for a second. You're twice his size though."

Jackson pulled a face.

"Size makes no difference if a man is trained for fighting, and this Si of yours looks like a man who can take care of himself."

April leapt up.

"He's here? You've seen him? Where is he?"

"He's outside in the road, pretending to clear out a blocked drain. The thing is, that drain only comes here, and our drains don't need any work doing right now. So he's here for some other reason. Must be this guy of yours…or possibly someone sent by him?"

April shook her head and sighed deeply.

"Why don't you go out there and bring him in here? Do your Herculean Act again, you know, the scowl and the folded arms. Si is a typical bully. Always brave until his own hide is in danger. If you think I will run, you can always lock me back in my room until you return with him."

Jackson considered her suggestion, and smiled wryly.

"Very well, we'll do as you suggest. If he fails to cooperate, we have some very secure dungeons below this house."

April nodded.

"So I've heard." She replied with a shudder.

Mark was alerted when the large wrought iron gates swung open once again, seemingly of their own accord. A massive man with olive skin and black hair cut army style, and dressed entirely in black came striding through the gates and in a straight line toward him. Mark wondered how to play this out. He had clearly been found out somehow. He hoisted himself out of the hole and started to pack away his rods. The big guy reached him ad stopped. Mark saw his nose wrinkling slightly at the smell.

"You've been playing with our sewage all day. How do you stand the smell?"

"Your…? You mean this is the outlet pipe for…?"

The large man nodded slowly. Mark rolled his eyes.

"I didn't plan this too well did I? Look man, I just want my bird back. I miss her."

"So I gather. You must be Si."

"And you're the guy who made her an offer she couldn't refuse?"

Jackson shook his head.

"Nope. I'm just the bodyguard. You are coming in here with me."

Grabbing Mark by the shoulder, he half dragged and half carried him back to the house.


	16. A Not so Incredible Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An uncomfortable train journey for Napoleon.

The train was rather long in the tooth these days, and it showed by the comparative breakneck speed employed by a passing cyclist as the old fashioned steam engine trundled painfully up a hill dragging a long line of carriages behind it. It would never have been Napoleon's chosen mode of transport, but as Illya had very succinctly pointed out, if they were to keep up their cover, then they would have to pay the price, and travel in a style that would be regarded as suitable. Certainly two ordinary citizens would not travel everywhere by private jet or helicopter. Once the train reached the summit of the hill, its deficiencies vanished into ancient history. It was rather noisy as steam trains invariably are, but aside from being very slow going up steep inclines, it was reasonably quick and surprisingly comfortable. One reason for this was the very efficiency of the Soviet Railway Company whom had been working very hard since the war to get the railways systems back to their pre-war standards. The rails were in good order it seemed, and the carriages acceptable enough, despite being very crowded.

Napoleon was starting to tire of his disguise. He and Illya had been unintentionally separated as they boarded the train, and playing the part of a mute, he was not able to shout out to find his partner. He had been bumped into, jostled and trodden on by several unwitting but nonetheless clumsy fellow passengers who appeared to take his non-verbal response as permission to use him as some kind of a leaning post. Right now he had an elderly lady leaning hard on him on one side, a child continually bumping and prodding him from behind with whatever sharp object he was playing with, and the very attractive young woman in front of him had given him a pretty smile that set his heart racing, then promptly dumped a heavy suitcase on his right foot; and before he had the chance to pull his foot free, she had turned her back on him and sat herself down on it.

Napoleon debated the wisdom of throwing in the towel right now. He didn't need to be here suffering like this. Illya would have been just as content going off alone, and probably less uncomfortable too, but Napoleon hated knowing that he would not have his partner's back. It was a vow he had made to the Russian at the start of their partnership, and he was not about to turn his back on it. Wherever Illya went, Napoleon would be right beside him, covering his back as always. Besides, the cold tongue of fear and horror that had crept around his heart when Illya had first mentioned the likelihood of his having to leave UNCLE had still not diminished. This looked like being the very last mission he and Illya would work together, especially if they were successful. This was one mission that Napoleon could not bear to turn his back on.

His heart was almost breaking at the knowledge that if they succeeded in their endeavours, he would be returning to New York alone. Illya would stay behind and find some simple nine to five job to do in the offices and take care of his niece. If they were unsuccessful, they don't find the child, or perhaps find her dead, then he would have his partner beside him physically on his return home to New York, but Illya would be a shell of himself; for a while at least. It would be a failure his partner would never be able to reconcile. No matter how he looked at it, Napoleon could not envisage any solution to this mission which would be satisfactory for everyone.

Illya Kuryakin was seated in a private carriage, with a young woman on one knee and a glass of wine resting on the other. He wondered what had become of his partner. They had become separated very easily, and even if Napoleon did decide to squeeze through the throng to search for him, there was no way he would find Illya in here.

Illya, aka Mikhail Kuryakin had been recognized on the station platform and hauled aside to the front carriage which had been commandeered and fitted out by THRUSH for their travelling agents' comfort. Illya did not recognize the girl that had grabbed him on the station, the one now occupying his knee, but he appreciated being a lot more comfortable here than his fellow passengers were right now, including Napoleon. His first words had been to demand that his friend be brought to join him here, and he had issued the girl with a vivid physical description. She had passed it to two men already seated in the almost empty carriage, with instructions to find this man amongst all the passengers. All Illya knew was that they had originally been standing somewhere near the rear of the train. They had been gone for an hour now, but then again, it was a very long train, and there were a very large number of people through which to search.

"Get off me now, you have a bone in your rear that is sticking into me."

The girl got up in a playful huff.

"Well you haven't changed Mika. Just as rude as always. I can't think why I like you!"

"What is not to like?" The words almost stuck in Illya's throat, they were so alien to his own nature, but very much a part of the nature of Mikhail, as he had been rapidly learning. How could Mika have changed this much? The thought still boggled Illya. The Mikhail he knew had been modest and self-effacing. The girl flounced across the carriage and sat on a seat beside the opposite window, watching the scenery passing by. Illya looked round at her.

"I hope they find my friend Boris quickly. What made you leave him behind anyway?"

"I didn't know him, I only knew you. You never contacted anyone to tell them where you were or where you were going, so we didn't know you were planning on picking up a buddy."

"You could have asked."

"You are a member of THRUSH Mika, you need to learn that there are rules. It's all very well heading off to do your own thing at a moment's notice without telling anyone anything; but we have to try and cover your back while you're gone! Then you have the damned insolence to shout and yell at us for messing up your plans…the very ones you never tell anyone anything about! You know your job well Mika, you have a lot of skills that THRUSH central can make use of but they are starting to get tired of you and your personal vendettas. We are not here as a private army for your personal use Mikhail. You need to remember it!"

Illya stared at her, the wheels in his brain working overtime. At that moment the door opened, and two young men ushered in a third, a rather overweight individual with a jacket that almost fitted perfectly, and a red, chubby face. He nodded almost imperceptibly at the newcomers, and wagged his head in a gesture to come and sit down.

Napoleon was unspeakably relieved to see Illya safe, and slightly annoyed that he had been relaxing in style here with a glass of wine and pretty girl whilst he had been acting as a convenient leaning post for harassed fellow travelers back in carriage eight. He took the seat beside his partner, remembering to say nothing aloud. He gestured briefly hello with his hands. Illya looked briefly at him and nodded.

"You made it at last, Boris." He said curtly. "You'd get lost on the way to your own bathroom. Here, get yourself a drink, and relax."

He turned back to the girl and walked over to her, Napoleon watching from behind.

"What are you doing in these parts today anyway?" Illya asked, taking a risk. The girl eyed him warily.

"Orders."

"What orders?"

"Just obeying orders of central control, that's all. It's all dealt with now."

Illya eyes narrowed with suppressed fury.

"I left instructions for THRUSH to ensure my little Katiya was cared for in the event of my death, and yet when I went to collect her today, I find her gone. Missing. Taken apparently by my friends."

He leaned in close to her, and she edged back, slightly alarmed.

"I don't suppose you can tell me you these friends were?"

When she did not reply, he sneered at her.

"Do I look dead to you?"

She shook her head.

"Then where do you think I will find my daughter?"

The girl shrugged.

"Probably took her first to the Moscow Satrapy, and then tonight they'll probably ship her on. Central Command probably."

Illya swallowed his anger with difficulty. He didn't often get angry, and it was ever rarer for him to become as angry as he was right at this moment. He returned to his seat and dropped into it as though from a great height. Napoleon recognized the danger signs and said nothing. He handed him a large glass of vodka. Illya downed it in one, his lower lip sticking out, coupled with his youthful appearance, making him look like pouting teenager. Napoleon dared not risk speaking aloud in case he was being watched, so he tapped his partner's knee, and quickly said, using sign language;

"We'll find out where she is my friend."

Illya grasped Napoleon's hand in a mute gesture of thanks, then fell to gazing once more out of the window.


	17. Once More Unto The Breach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of a satrapy, another prisoner and a gorgeous ball-gown.

April listened at her door, but the noises from downstairs did not penetrate this far up. Frustrated, she sat on the bed and waited…for all of five minutes. Finally, she heard Jackson at her door, and then the door was open.

"Did you bring Si indoors? Did he try to fight you?"

Jackson shook his head, his eyes narrowing in distaste.

"He begged to see you. He says he came because he is desperate to get you back. When I told him you were finished with him, he began to cry!"

April's eyes opened wide in surprise, then her mouth twitched.

"What do you want to do with him? What would they do with him?"

"Kill him of course. Especially now."

April studied Jackson's averted face closely.

"You don't want to kill him do you? You're not that type."

He shook his head.

"Too much killing already in this world. But he needs to be silenced. Killing is one way of guaranteeing his silence. I'll do it if I have to."

"But the rest of the people in this house…they've all gone off to this function thing haven't they? They don't have to know Si was here. You could scare him and send him off. I told you, he's a coward at heart. A typical bully, but I don't want to see him killed. Besides, what could he tell anyone? That I came round being nosy and you offered me a job?"

Jackson grabbed April's arm slightly more roughly than usual.

"Why on earth would you think everyone has gone? Leave the house almost empty? We have plenty of men to guard the house and the grounds, mark my words. Now, according to this Si, you know a good deal more about what is going on here than you let on when they first picked you up. If he's right, you might just find yourself at the wrong end of a gun."

April frowned.

"I warned you all about Si. He'll do what he can to get the heat off himself. I'm just a harmless masseuse trying very hard to avoid being his girlfriend. Even Si is harmless really. He's a sort of fixit man, that's all. If there is someone with the idea that something illegal is being done in this house, or from here, and they want more information, perhaps for blackmail purposes, Si is the one they go to. He has…contacts…you know? All over the place."

"Like you? A spy of some sort?"

"A spy? Me? Are you serious? Jackson why are you suddenly so suspicious of me?"

Jackson grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her firmly, although not too roughly into the drawing room. There, tied securely to a ring bolt embedded in the ceiling, was Mark.

"I just don't know which of you I believe."

April stared at Mark with an expression of exasperation on her face.

"Si, what the hell are you doing here? I thought I had managed to get away from you, and yet here you turn up again. Can't you ever take no for an answer? Now you've got this chump wondering which of us to trust! Couldn't you have come up with anything more original than a Plummer? Now we're both stuck in this mausoleum, and Uncle Alex is going to have to go to the ball on his own. He was relying on you for a lift! When is he expecting you to pick him up?"

Mark lowered his eyes, secretly rejoicing at his partner's acting ability. The least he could do was try to play his part convincingly.

"In one hour I think…sorry babe, but you love me. I know you do. Why would you stay here?"

April let out a breath and glanced at Jackson who was looking rather annoyed at her calling him a chump.

"I didn't actually get any choice…Jackson, why don't you go to see Uncle Alex instead of us?"

"Uncle Alex? What are you two going on about? Something is going on here, and I'm going to get to the bottom of it."

He turned to the table and picked up the telephone receiver.

April glanced quickly at her partner and nodded her head a fraction. He smiled and winked. The next moment, April's left leg raised high and kicked the telephone receiver out of his hand. She followed quickly with a low, sweeping kick with her right leg that swept him off his feet and brought him to the floor with a bump!

"What the hell…?"

With a sweet smile, April removed a tiny vial from inside her blouse and removing the stopper, waved it under his nose. Within seconds, he was snoring gently.

"Mark, fancy choosing that particular sewage outlet! No one would have got suspicious if you had chosen the main sewer!"

"Sorry!" he grinned. "Where is Uncle Alex going this evening? Does he know?"

"To the Embassy Ball...and no, I don't suppose for a second that he does."

He nodded appreciatively.

"Well done you! A THRUSH presence eh?"

She nodded.

"Teeming with THRUSH. We need to get some of our own there, and I ought to go too, without my disguise of course. You could probably go safely enough…no one would recognize you in your tux after that dirty old outfit you have on there. You've smelled sweeter, partner!"

Mark laughed.

"And our THRUSH friend?"

"I'll tell you on the way."

Swiftly April untied her partner, and whilst Mark set about tying up Jackson and heaving him over his shoulder, April removed her communicator from its hiding place in her bra.

"Open Channel D. Section two to section one."

"Channel D open…." There was a pause, then Waverly's voice came across the receiver.

"Waverly here."

"Agent Dancer sir. We need a team to secure this house, sir. It's a THRUSH base masquerading as a private residence. They have several enterprises going on here sir, one of them I suspect is the gun-running that appeared in the report. There is a more pressing matter though sir; all the primary members of this base are attending tonight's' Embassy ball. There are several security types dotted around the grounds. The young woman called Olivia Del Paglio, the one we have been specifically watching for, sir, is acting as a hostess at the ball."

"How interesting! Very well, I will get some section two and three agents to your location immediately. How soon can you get back here?"

"Leaving now sir, with a prisoner."

"I will have Invitations for you by the time you get here…which Embassy, but the way?"

April frowned. How come she didn't know that? Waverly gathered as much from her pause.

"I will look into it. Report to me as soon as you arrive."

April signed off and sighed. Mark grinned at her.

"Can't win everything, partner. This chap will know. We'll get him to cough up, never fear."

"I hope so." April replied dejectedly as they left the building. "I really hope so."

Leaving the grounds was not quite the issue they had been expecting. Finding the gate controls was not difficult, so Mark marched straight out of the house, down the driveway and through the opened gate whistling cheerfully and boldly. A moment later, he had collected his car and driven it up to the front door. Together they heaved the unconscious Jackson into the back of the car and drove quietly away. By the time the security guards realized the subterfuge, the pair were well away with their charge.

Jackson was lying cozily in the back of Mark's car still sleeping peacefully. April sat hunched in the passenger seat as her partner streaked through the streets of Long Island, heading back to headquarters. He glanced sideways at her.

"Talk to me."

"I'm all right."

"No you're not. Tell Uncle Mark."

She sighed softly.

"I was just thinking I could do with a nice holiday about now, somewhere warm but not too hot, where no one can find me and bother me with their silly problems."

"Long day?"

"Long week! First my heart broke when Napoleon and Illya died, but then I was…upset because they were alive and put me through all of that emotion. Now my heart is breaking again for Napoleon's sake and for mine because of Illya…you realize if he succeeds in doing…whatever it is he is doing in Russia right now, UNCLE is going to lose him. And now I am angry at myself for not getting all the information we need."

"Emotional rollercoaster, eh? Look kiddo, you were a prisoner in that place weren't you? More or less?"

"Hmmm." April conceded gloomily. Mark grinned at his partner.

"Waverly wanted you out today regardless of what you did or did not find out, so that part has been a success."

"Bully for you!" April harrumphed. Mark laughed aloud.

"April love, why are you so gloomy? You found out for certain that that place is THRUSH, you found out that they are definitely up to something, you found out that all the top brass will be at a posh `do' of some kind, and we have a prisoner to boot! Without you we would have been no further on than we were when we got back from Russia! Moran still hasn't said a word and no one has yet gone in to see him. The only one who has been anywhere near him is catering."

April stared at her partner. He caught her gaze and frowned for a second, then he too realized what was in her mind.

"The caterers?"

She nodded.

"Prisoners receive their food always the same way by the same person. The Section 6 officer assigned to the prisoners' meals. Catering contact section 6 when the prisoners' trolley is ready for delivery and section 6 always send down the same person to deliver it. Always the same person…Open the hatch, slide the tray through and relock the hatch before the prisoner can retrieve it the other side. Collecting the trays, the same thing happens in reverse."

"The only one who has ever and could ever go near the cells without being suspicious."

"We had better look again at those tapes, Mark."

MFU MFU MFU MFU

Illya spent the next few hours silent and glowering, refusing to emerge from his black fit except for a scowl and a snarl. Even Napoleon had little success in persuading his partner to respond, and when he did it was with an impatient gesture.

Napoleon had witnessed Illya's moodiness before of course, but he had never before felt the trepidation he now experienced at the thought of interrupting his friend's thoughts. If asked he would have been hard put to say whether this behaviour was Illya being himself, or Illya being Mikhail. Either way, he had become a frightening individual, even to Napoleon who was closer to Illya than anyone else living. Glancing round the carriage, Napoleon's eyes fell upon the young woman who had been sitting on Illya's knee when he first came in. She smiled at him.

"So, how come I've not heard a word out of you? Do you have a name?"

Napoleon nodded and spelled out his name using sign language. She raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"Sign language? Sorry but I never learned it. You appear to read lips very well for a deaf man though."

Napoleon made some simple gestures to convey the fact that he wasn't deaf. The girl appeared to understand.

"You're not deaf at all? But you can't speak? Too bad. What was it, an injury or something?"

Napoleon shook his head and shrugged. She smiled.

"Shame. A face like that could make a girl weak at the knees…especially with a nice speaking voice. Can't you try? Try to say something aloud."

Napoleon opened his mouth, then shrugged and closed it again, hoping the girl would get the message. Illya was clearly feeling his partner's awkwardness. He looked round and visibly nudged his partner.

"Leave him be will you?" he said to the girl, a little sharply. "He's been through things you will never understand. He used to talk once, but he's not spoken a word since the war. Nagging him is never going to help."

"Sorry."

Napoleon smiled shyly at her, deliberately flirting with her with his eyes, and she blushed and giggled. Illya rolled his eyes and returned to staring out of the window. He secretly hoped Napoleon would control himself this time. Who knew what he might forget in the heat of passion?

Napoleon too was aware of the danger, and he contented himself with smiling at the girl with his eyes but before it could get any further, he closed them and snoozed.

The next thing he knew; someone had given him a gentle kick in the leg.

"Wake up sleeping beauty! We're almost back in Moscow."

Napoleon rubbed his eyes and looked around. The young woman and the two men whom had been sharing their carriage were gone. Illya was looking down at him, his expression sad, although Napoleon was relieved to see the angry scowl was missing from his partner.

"Hello" he signed briefly. The side of Illya's mouth raised in a brief smile.

"You're finding it a struggle aren't you?" He said softly. Napoleon nodded Illya squeezed his elbow briefly.

"I do appreciate it, really."

Napoleon raised a single eyebrow and Illya read the unasked question easily.

"You think I would sooner be on my own? Napoleon, you…I…" Illya's voice broke and he had to take a deep breath before trying again.

"Napoleon, you think that because I never tell you about my past I don't trust you with it? I never tell you because some of it is hard enough to think about. Almost impossible to talk about. It has nothing to do with not trusting you. My friend, you are the only family I have left. If I have to face anything else…Napoleon, I thought I wanted to do this alone, but if you give up on me now…" Illya left the sentence unfinished and turned away. Napoleon was touched, and stuck in his disguise, wholly unable to express himself. He was oddly reassured though. He wasn't wasting his time here after all. Illya had been decidedly chilly when they first set out, because he had firmly believed this was his own task to complete; but he had changed his mind.

He smiled to himself. Perhaps Illya was enjoying watching Napoleon enduring the discomfort of wearing a fat suit, dealing with the heat, and the make-up and the extra weight he was carrying around; to say nothing of the change in the way he was viewed by many of the women; and this persona, playing a mute man, he was unable to even use his charm to beat them down. On the female stakes, perhaps Illya felt slightly at an advantage now?

No, that's unfair, he chided himself. Napoleon was aware of the staff back at headquarters who would happily pass on a date with Napoleon Solo at the chance of a date with the Russian. Although Napoleon was unwilling to admit it frankly to himself, if Illya had been the type to romance all the women, Napoleon would have had a tough fight on his hands competing. He was suddenly aware that Illya was watching him curiously.

"What are you smirking about?"

Napoleon glanced down at his hands, then back at his friend. No way could he tell Illya what he had been thinking these past few minutes. He simply smiled and raised his hands to reply in sign language.

"Just thinking Illya, I hope you never change!"

Illya smiled briefly.

"Come along my friend. Time to rejoin our birdy friends."

MFU MFU MFU MFU

Alexander Waverly frowned at his two agents as they finished their verbal report. They could almost see the cogs turning inside his head. He leaned across his console and started to flip switches and press buttons, then he glanced up at the monitor.

"The visual on Agent Whitehead from the day Mr. Moran first arrived."

They watched the scenario play out smoothly as it had day after day with a dozen other prisoners. Nothing seemed amiss. Nothing obvious amiss. There was no sign of contact either verbal or otherwise between the agent and the prisoner, the food on its tray went through the hatch smoothly. Suddenly, Mark leaned forward.

"April, rewind that last part again for 'us!"

April complied, wondering what her partner had noticed. Once again they watched the tray being lifted from the trolley and placed in the open hatchway.

"There, did you see that?"

"What have you noticed?" Waverly asked him, peering hard at the screen. Mark clicked his tongue and shook his head.

"The napkin, did you see that?"

April frowned.

"So he put the napkin on the tray? What of it? The prisoner is entitled to one table napkin with his meal."

"Yes luv, but wouldn't the napkin be placed on the tray along with the food? Isn't it the custom to put your plastic cutlery on your napkin? So why did Agent Whitehead put another one on the tray before he put the tray through the hatch?"

The three watched the footage again carefully, and then hurried on to view other occasions. They found that just once a day, sometimes it was the evening meal, sometimes breakfast, but once every day the same thing happened. Just before sliding the food tray through the hatch for the prisoner to retrieve, Whitehead placed something white and square on the tray, presumably a table napkin; or at least, something that was meant to resemble one. April and Mark's eyes met and April nodded.

"Best we check I suppose. What about a security spot check? One of us be there watching when the prisoners' food tray is being prepared and laid out?"

Mark agreed.

"We had better make it a system wide check though partner, otherwise the staff down in catering might start to think they are under suspicion."

Waverly pressed his intercom button.

"Miss Rogers, we are ready for you now."

The door opened and Mr. Waverly's assistant Lisa Rogers came in with a thin file in her hands. She handed it to her boss and smiling at the two waiting agents, she left. Waverly opened the file.

"According to this, two of the Embassies are holding events this evening. The French and the Russian. Which do you favour as the most likely?"

"The French are a possible…but as my dad would've said, `An improbable possible'!" Mark said with a grin. "My bet would be on the Russian."

April frowned.

"We think Russian because…it was…er…our friend's belief that the traitors inside UNCLE and inside THRUSH have a contact in the Russian Embassy. It does seem most likely, but is it possible, even remotely, that this contact might be with one of the other embassies?"

"It's possible, but remember this person at the embassy had to have a contact within a THRUSH satrap in the middle of the Soviet Union. French connections are unlikely."

Waverly allowed the two to discuss the points for a moment or two before clearing hi throat and declaring an end to it.

"So thanks to the work you two have done, we have three possibilities to follow up…possibly connected and possibly not. We have to investigate the food tray going in to Moran; That fellow Jackson you brought in is being interrogated as we speak, so we need to find out what they come up with; and last but certainly not least, we need to make sure there is an undercover UNCLE presence at the Russian Embassy ball. I have here two invitations to the ball…" He smirked and cleared his throat. "The catch is, as the person who issued them is a very old friend, I have no alternative but to take one of the invitations myself. So Miss Dancer, perhaps you will do me the honour of joining me at the Russian Embassy Ball this evening? We'll see what we can discover between us."

"Yes sir." April replied throwing her partner a sympathetic look. What else could she say? Mark sniffed and grinned gamely.

"Very well, I'll undertake the system-wide security check of the building. Maybe I can come up with something concrete."

Waverly shook his head.

"Oh no, no, no Mr. Slate! We can brief Section Three under `Need To Know', and let them do the security sweep. I have a better job for you."

"Oh, yes sir?" Mark said brightly, secretly guessing what was coming next. One hour later, in the office he shared with his partner, he looked at himself in the mirror and cringed.

"I look like a damned penguin, April!"

April giggled at his unhappy expression. The full, high-class waiter, complete with crisp white shirt, black bow tie, waistcoat, smart straight black trousers and impeccable white apron around his waist that reached almost to his knees.

"Are you good at balancing full trays of food and drink in one hand without dropping or spilling anything? You may find you have to pass through every doorway backwards!"

Mark glared at her.

"Yeah, whilst you're having fun! What are you wearing by the way?"

April reached up and peeled off her face mask with its long fair hair.

"Not this anyway! I'm going to take a shower now, and sort my hair out...I'm going to wear this! Mr. Waverly sent out for it."

April opened the door of her cupboard and removed a ball gown in a clear plastic covering for her partner to look at. He stared.

"Wow!" was all he was able to say.

The dress was stunning. A strapless dress made with layers and layers of light peacock blue tulle, gleaming sequins painstakingly sewn into the bodice and around the lower part of the flowing skirts. The colour was the perfect balance for April's hair. Mark found he could not wait to see her wearing it.

"You could hide a machete beneath those skirts partner!" he commented, "But you might have a problem if you have to get into a fight!"

April grinned at him as she grabbed her bathrobe, her make-up bag and her ball gown and paused at the door.

"I think wearing a dress like this Mark, fighting will be the least of my worries. I've never worn anything quite this showy before. How on earth do I use the powder room wearing a dress this big?"

Mark chuckled.

"Can't help you there luv! You'll have to let me know how you get on later. I have to go in five minutes. Waiting staff have to be there very early. Look out for me."

April blew him a kiss.

"Catch you later. Give me a wink if you recognize me."

MFU MFU MFU MFU

Once again, Napoleon and Illya found themselves outside the large house in Moscow, where only a day or two earlier, Mark and April had affected a very efficient rescue. Now they were about to head back into the proverbial lion's den. Only this time they had no safety net. There was no Mark or April to rescue them if they got into trouble. The would have only themselves and their own ingenuity. Napoleon glanced at his partner.

"How do you want me to play this?" he signed, "This is your game."

"I am Mikhail, and I am fuming about the removal of my daughter without my express permission. Actually I am angry! You've guessed that they've taken her to try and control me haven't you?"

Napoleon nodded.

"I gathered that much. So am I angry along with you? Am I to be comforting?"

Illya considered.

"I think both…but you are also my unofficial protector I think. I have you to back me up with your fists if necessary. I think you can look imposing, even under all that padding…excellent, partner. I would say, rather than risk shouting out, if you need to attract my attention in a hurry, whistle loudly."

Napoleon nodded. As he followed his partner through the gates, a stray quote ran through his mind, Shakespeare's Henry V, act III, scene I "Once more unto the breach dear friends…"

Napoleon smiled grimly and hurried after Illya. Once more, unto the breach indeed…


	18. Waverly Vs Jackson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waverly conducts Jackson's interrogation with surprising results.

When agent Sam Hoskins left the interrogation room, he found Alexander Waverly standing resolutely in the hallway.

"Sir!"

"Mr. Hoskins. You have Miss Dancer's prisoner in there. Has he started to cooperate with us yet?"

The man shook his head, but Waverly could see the ghost of a smile behind his eyes.

"He won't answer any questions sir, but he keeps shaking his head and muttering to himself over and over again `How could I have been fooled like that?' I think he actually had the hots for April sir, sorry, I mean agent Dancer, and he is annoyed that he never guessed that she was a member of UNCLE."

Waverly repressed a smile and beckoned to the man.

"Come with me."

He opened the door and entered the room, Hoskins following close behind. He nodded at the security man.

"Thank you Mr. Jones. You can wait outside the door."

Jackson watched the elderly man entering the room and inwardly groaned. Not another one. This one had an undeniable air of authority about him. He sat back and folded his arms as Waverly took a seat and smiled amiably.

"I am Alexander Waverly."

Waverly could see his name was familiar to this THRUSH fellow. He wondered if April was right about him?

"Leader of U.N.C.L.E I understand? I've heard of you. You are one that THRUSH Has always wanted to get hold of even more eagerly than your Napoleon Solo."

"Yes, well it seems that we get what we want if we are patient enough. Your organization managed to kill my two best agents Mr. Solo, and Mr. Kuryakin a few days ago. Congratulations!"

The tone was caustic, but Jackson frowned.

"So I heard. I'm sorry."

"The deaths of two talented men bothers you? The deaths of two men who were undeniably your enemies, that bothers you?"

"The death of anyone bothers me Mr. Waverly."

"So why work for an organization that specializes in creating ever more imaginative ways of killing people?"

Jackson said nothing.

"Miss April Sweet. You took to her I understand."

Reluctantly, Jackson nodded.

"I saw pretty quickly there was something wholesome about Miss Sweet. Not like…well, anyway, now I know why. She was on assignment for YOU!"

Waverly shook his head.

"Actually, she was there doing almost exactly what she claimed to be doing, and when your people gave her no option but to join your little household, and whilst there, she quite honestly did her best to fit in."

"Until she could find a way to escape and take all THRUSH's secrets with her."

"Escape, yes. What secrets? Anything there is to know about your little Long Island satrap can be discovered a lot more safely than my sending in a young woman as a spy. If I had wanted to send her in among you as a spy, I might have suggested she apply for a position as a cook or something."

"Or even as a masseuse."

"She told the truth about that. She is a qualified masseuse, and has often used her skills professionally in that capacity. She also has qualifications in the care of hair and beauty…I guess you recognized that much about her. You need not be upset at being fooled by her."

"Thanks to her I am sitting here."

"Actually…Miss Sweet is not the first of my people you have had in your house."

"She's not?" Jackson was suddenly on the alert. "Who else has been fooling me?"

Waverly shook his head.

"No one. She was a visitor. A young woman who went to school with one of your comrades?"

Jackson frowned.

"You mean The Mouse?"

Waverly blinked in surprise. Jackson's mouth twitched.

"The Mouse. That is her nickname around the base. A scared, mousy little thing called Em. At least, that's what Livvy calls her. This mousy girl Em turns up once or twice a week, and she and Livvy lock themselves in the library for a couple of hours drinking wine, then Livvy calls for a cab to take the Mouse home again."

"Talking about schooldays probably."

"Probably. What difference does it make anyway?"

"Because it was about the time that these `visits' started taking place that things started to happen which led eventually to the deaths of my two agents."

"So? You have a spy inside UNCLE. Why should I cry about it?"

"Because `Em' is not a spy. She has been thoroughly investigated, and she has passed every lie detector test with flying colours. So something else is happening inside that room. It makes this person Livvy guilty at the very minimum of double murder by association, and if you do not start being more cooperative, you will be charged and found guilty of conspiracy to commit double murder."

Waverly's faced remained stony and impassive, throwing everything into his bluff in the hope that this large fellow could be persuaded to open his mouth. The effect on Jackson was instantaneous. He leapt back in his chair, almost knocking it over and backed against the wall.

"Now look here, I'm just a security guard there, that's all."

"You work for THRUSH!"

"I was an agency security man when I first went there, I swear! But things weren't going well for my family, and I needed more cash to help them out. They said if I worked for them directly instead of through my agency, I would be paid double. So I took it. I needed the money. I learned to…not look too closely at…" his voice petered out and he sat back down in his chair and put his head in his hands.

"They wanted me to kill that bloke Si, Miss Sweet's boyfriend, but I couldn't do that. I'm not a killer Mr. Waverly. There's been too many deaths…"

Waverly looked into Jackson's eyes and saw the truth and the misery in them. This fellow was just a minion, someone to do the dirty work.

"Are you a good security guard?"

Jackson looked taken aback.

"Of course I am. THRUSH would have thrown me into the East River a long time ago if I wasn't."

Waverly nodded.

"I can offer you a deal. An equitable arrangement."

"What sort of deal? How equitable? I don't want to be sent down for murder!"

"Tell me everything you know. Answer all our questions the best you can, and…"

"…and have THRUSH determine to kill me?"

"Like they try to kill all my agents. Help us to catch these particular THRUSHes and they will be out of our hair. If you prove yourself trustworthy, I can always use a man with your talents in section three."

"Y. mean, I help you and you'll give me a job? Like for real?"

"We may not pay quite as well as THRUSH, but you will find us very generous in other ways…and UNCLE has a brighter future than THRUSH."

Jackson stared at the shrewd old Englishman and grinned slowly.

"If everyone at UNCLE is as wily as you are, Mr. Waverly, then I can well believe you." He sat back chewing his lip.

"My family…if I work for UNCLE, they might become targets."

"They will receive automatic protection. Even relocation if necessary, all expenses paid. We look after our people…even after retirement which is more than you can say of THRUSH."

Gradually a slow smile spread across Jackson's face which finished in a grin.

"I could even work officially with Miss Sweet?"

At that, Hoskins started to chuckle and Waverly smiled indulgently.

"Actually, her name is April Dancer, and yes, I am sure you would sometimes be called upon to work alongside her. So, what do you say?"

"What do you want to know?"


	19. On The Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya is on the rampage through the Moscow satrapy, but it is all an act...isn't it?

Illya closed his eyes for a moment, deliberately taking his mind back over the events of the past couple of months. He had been through some pretty tough things recently, emotions that he had not experienced at quite that intensity since he was a child. Grief and sorrow yes, but anger too. No child is well equipped to safely vent his anger, especially in the sole presence of adults, and most especially when those adults are largely responsible for the events that led to those feelings. However, Illya was not a child, and he was perfectly free to vent his anger on these THRUSH villains. It must have been someone from THRUSH that had turned Mikhail into a traitor, and for that alone, Illya felt justified in his anger.

Watching his partner carefully, Napoleon prepared himself mentally. He knew Illya was deliberately getting himself into the correct frame of mind to be able to carry this off successfully, but it looked like Illya was truly angry, really angry for his own sake. Napoleon did not really believe that Illya would take things too far and put himself in the wrong, but at the back of his mind a little voice warned him to watch his friend carefully. Just in case.

Without looking back, Illya strode forward through the gates and straight up the driveway without a second thought. Napoleon marched purposefully behind him, keeping his expression as stern as he could beneath all the perspiration. When they reached the front door, Illya grabbed the bell-pull and jangled it fiercely for a long time, and then raised his left foot and gave the door a mighty kick.

The door juddered under the blow, but remained intact. Illya kicked again, and then again. The door caved in on the fourth attempt and landed heavily on the floor, at the feet of half a dozen THRUSH officers and minions whom had been rushing to rescue the front door from its attacker. Illya ignored them and strode past without a glance. He snarled loudly, speaking in Russian.

"I want Moran! Where's Moran? I'm going to take him APART!" Illya stormed, marching straight up the stairs towards Moran's office. "Moran! Moran!"

Napoleon followed, watching as his partner searched methodically for Moran, going from room to room and becoming more and more irate as the subject of his ire failed to appear. Napoleon couldn't help wondering how Moran would have reacted if he was here, rather than back in New York under lock and key? They were followed by an increasing crowd of THRUSH men, all obviously familiar with Mikhail Kuryakin, and thus doubtless also aware of the kind of enemy he would make. They were all pleading and cajoling and trying to hold Illya back as he determinedly and none too quietly stormed his way around the building. Finally, on the upstairs landing, Illya stopped and held up his hands.

"Quiet!" he bellowed furiously. The babble of voices turned themselves off almost miraculously. From the back of the crowd, a figure pushed his way to the front. Napoleon and Illya recognized him as Colonel Moran's aide, Fyodor. Illya narrowed his eyes.

"Where is he? Where is Moran?"

"Captured by UNCLE, as well you know."

Illya stared at Fydor as though he had just crawled out from under a stone.

"What!?" the tone was clearly dangerous. "UNCLE? You let him be captured by UNCLE? So you really are as incompetent as I took you for."

"You let UNCLE in the building Kuryakin, and then you absconded with them!"

"I did no such thing. THRUSH! I sometimes wonder why I bother with any of you. You let UNCLE get the better of you every time. I had them well and truly fooled until THRUSH went and destroyed my cover. Now UNCLE think we are both dead. Moran ordered me to try and infiltrate UNCLE once again by persuading them that I am my dead brother Illya, but I have been betrayed! Again! So what do you think I will do now Fyodor?" Illya pulled out his gun, cocked it and aimed it at Fyodor's head.

"If that double-crossing Moran isn't here, you will do just as well! You are his aide. Apparently. Where is my daughter?"

The bystanders had become silent, watching the confrontation but none of them inclined to interfere. They moved back out of reach, but still watching, occasionally muttering among themselves, leaving Illya and Fyodor in the centre of a wide circle, with Napoleon standing sentry-like behind Illya, his arms folded across his chest. Fyodor shook his head.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Illya pressed the barrel of the gun firmly against Fyodor's right nostril and leaned in closer.

"You really think I am bluffing? You have ten seconds to tell me what I want to know before I pull this trigger. Ten"

"I don't know where she is!"

"Nine."

"I swear I don't know!"

"Eight."

"Please Mikhail, I have no idea!"

"Seven."

"Please don't shoot!"

"Six."

"I didn't even know you had a daughter. Mikhail, I swear!"

"Five."

"Fine then. Do your worst."

"Four."

Stubborn silence ensued.

"Three."

Fyodor's eyes stared transfixed at the gun against his nose, but said nothing.

"Two."

Napoleon watched the scene, wondering what would happen if Fyodor really did call his partner's bluff. Should he attempt to interfere? Illya was bluffing…wasn't he…?

"One."

Illya's lips twisted into a leer and his finger tightened around the trigger. Fyodor came to life suddenly, sinking to his knees and shuddering in fear and humiliation.

"No, please no for the love of god don't shoot me, please!"

"You know the futility of your last sentence Fyodor, now talk!"

"Moran had nothing to do with your kid, neither did I, honest"

"I don't care who did or didn't do anything. She's my daughter and I want her back. WHERE IS SHE!?"

"She was brought here last night."

"I gathered that. Where is she now? THRUSH Central?"

Fyodor shook his head.

"What do they want with kids? Nah, she's gone. Her Dedushka came and took her away. He's been threatening to get the kid ever since she was born, but your missis stood up to him I reckon. Did she never tell you?"

Illya stared at him. The child's grandfather? He remembered what Uncle Dimitry had told him about Mika's late wife; Anna Kossov. Illya remembered her from school. She had always been sweet on Mikhail even as kids, but her father had always been away working it seemed. Illya had no recollection of ever seeing him. He remembered Anna's hardworking and kindly mother, but although he was aware that there had always been a father in the background somewhere, he had no memory of ever meeting him. What was his name now? Kir Yuriyev Kossov.

He stepped back and engaged the gun's safety and replaced it in its holster. He half observed Fyodor heaving a shaky sigh of relief.

"Kir Yuriyev." Illya nodded almost to himself. "I'll find him easily enough."

Fyodor let out a scornful laugh; braver, now that the hated gun was out of sight.

"Comrade Kossov? You won't get anywhere near him. He's guarded by THRUSH's finest."

Illya turned his back on Fyodor and turned to the crowd around them.

"Get out of here. Get back to work the lot of you. What are you all gawping at?"

He turned back to face Fyodor.

"Get on your feet. You were Moran's aide? You're mine, now..."

"What about the mission you said the Colonel gave you?"

"My daughter first."

"You never bothered about her before Mister Kuryakin."

"She always had a mother before."

"I still don't trust you. You could still be Illya pretending to be Mikhail."

Napoleon watched as Illya turned those cool icy green eyes on the aide.

"If I was my brother, I would say you would be the lucky one. UNCLE train their people to have more scruples than THRUSH. If the Colonel is with UNCLE, he'll be safe enough for now. Which is more than I can say of you. If you annoy me further, I won't bother counting to ten."

Fyodor looked pointedly at Napoleon and then back.

"Your friend is very quiet. Is he here just for decoration or do you have a use for him?"

"Unlike you Fyodor, Boris does not need to speak to show his strength. Your words hide the fact that you are a terrified, whimpering worm. He does not talk, but neither can he be bought. He is one person…the only person at present whose loyalty I can be certain of. Now let us go down to the communications center shall we and you can contact Kossov."

"I couldn't do that! He wouldn't agree to talk to me anyway!"

"He will talk to me or he will be in for the worst few days of his life. Move! Boris, cover our rear."

Illya prodded Fyodor hard in the back, and followed as the other man was urged quickly down the corridor." Napoleon followed, feeling very glad that he was on Illya's side.

In the basement nestled the communications room, stuffed with THRUSH personnel, a few women but mostly men all bustling about busily. Fyodor, motivated largely by his fear of Illya and his gun, crossed the room and spoke to one of the women hurriedly.

"General Kossov, right now."

"Kossov? He won't like the interruption."

"Not our problem. Get him on the line. Kuryakin wants to have a little chat."

"That's Mister Kuryakin to you." Illya said in a low, smooth voice almost without moving his lips. Napoleon was secretly impressed how for the moment Illya was keeping everyone cowed; but things might all change. He nudged his partner softly, and when Illya turned to look at him, he signed

"Be careful now. Kossov might not be so readily fooled."

Illya nodded and stepped toward the communications array. The young/old face of a man appeared on the screen, he could have been anywhere between fifty-five and eighty-five, with salt and pepper hair, slightly overgrown across the ears and over the collar of his shirt, dressed in the THRUSH version of a General's uniform.

"What? I told you not to interrupt me! How dare you interrupt me?" He boomed across the speakers in the room. Illys stepped in front of the camera and grabbed the receiver.

"Me. That's why the interruption."

The grey eyes opened wide.

"Mikhail!"

"It's one thing taking care of your granddaughter once she is orphaned, but here I am. As you can see. I want her back."

"Mika, my boy, you are alive! You were declared dead!"

"No, My brother is dead. I am still alive as you can see, and I want my daughter back."

"Of course boy, but…forgive me…are you equipped to care for her properly? Be there every day for her? Teach her, play with her, talk to her, spend quality time with her? Provide for her needs?"

Illya frowned.

"What the dickens are you insinuating? I can provide her with all she needs, and besides that, she is my own flesh and blood!"

The old man nodded sadly.

"Listen boy, we will do better talking about this face to face rather than over an open channel like this. Are you willing to come to my place? We can talk properly, and of course, Katiya is here."

"I will come right now."

"I'll send my personal chopper to pick you up."

"For two of us. My aide Boris is coming too."

The General nodded, and the line was broken. Illya turned to Fyodor.

"Once I am gone, you're in temporary command here until Moran returns or is replaced."

"Yes…sir."

"Very well. You heard what the General said. Make sure the helipad is clear. Have you reported to THRUSH central about UNCLE's invasion?"

"Yes. They're sending someone out from central take over here. They'll be here by tomorrow."

"Well even you can't make too much of a mess by then. I suppose when UNCLE captured Colonel Moran, they got back my UNCLE prisoner Napoleon Solo as well?"

When Fyodor nodded, Illya spat in annoyance.

"Well, once this fiasco regarding Kossov and my daughter is sorted out, we'll retrieve both of them. Knowing the history of THRUSH at messing up simple jobs like that, this is one mission that I will lead in person. Come Boris, we have a chopper to catch."

Once Napoleon and Illya were up on the roof, at the edge of the helipad waiting for Kossov' chopper to arrive, Napoleon glanced around cautiously. Here they were higher than anything for miles around. No one to oversee or overhear anything. He pulled his partner close, just to be on the safe side, and spoke aloud, but in a very low voice.

"Illya, who was Kossov?"

"Anna's father…My brother's father-in-law."

"In other words, he is your niece's grandfather?"

Illya nodded, his face dark, his eyes hooded. Napoleon tried to reason with him.

"Well then Illya, what the hell are we doing here? Katiya is an orphan. Both her parents are dead. You are not her father, you are her uncle, and whether you like it or not, her grandfather has greater rights over her than you do."

"He doesn't know that. Besides, he was a rotten father to Anna. He was never there for her."

"Says who, Illya? Did she ever tell you that?"

Illya said nothing. Napoleon felt desperately sorry for his friend, but he had to make the man see sense.

"He will have changed over the years, and besides that, he is her grandfather, and it is clear he cares about her."

"But Napoleon, he is THRUSH!"

Napoleon nodded slowly.

"I know. That is not a point in his favour, but Illya, not even Mister Tarasov will be able to take your part when they learn that Katiya is being cared for by her grandfather, and I don't need to tell you how Mister Waverly would react either. As far as the child is concerned, the law is on his side. Not yours."

"Unless I can prove physical or psychological cruelty."

"Illya, you're clutching at straws."

Illya turned to face him, his face red with fury and sadness. He was clearly controlling his voice with an effort.

"Maybe I am Napoleon, but what else…who else do I have? I lost everyone important to me through the war, and then later…when I thought I could grab a little happiness…my wife and my son…well you know what…" His voice broke and he turned away, and when he spoke again, his voice was so quiet, Napoleon had to strain to hear him.

"I have to try. Don't you see? I have to try."

Napoleon's heart was bleeding in sympathy for his friend. He put his arm round Illya's shoulders, and spoke in a voice almost as quiet as Illya's had been a moment ago.

"I know you're hurting, but remember you're dealing with the life of a little girl. This is not about you and what you need my friend. This is about what is best for the child. It has to be. Whatever happens from here on in, you have to be honest with yourself. You can't, must not judge this man based on the fact that you don't like his job. Anything you do, any decision you make has to, must be based solely on the long term welfare of this little girl. You can't let anything else make your decisions for you. Not even the fact that as you look so much like her father, and are pretending to be him, she is likely to believe that you…"

Illya stared at Napoleon as though that thought had not even occurred to him. Napoleon gave a watery smile.

"That won't make it any easier for you either, my friend, but promise me you will consider what the child's needs are first."

As Illya nodded numbly and looked once again towards the skies, Napoleon was unspeakably grateful to whatever instinct had told him to accompany his partner on this trip. He had feared that his friend would be in danger of losing himself in the emotional backwash, and he was right. As the chopper finally hove into sight in the distance, Napoleon silently prayed for wisdom to deal with whatever might follow.


	20. The Embassy Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark, April and Mister Waverly undertake a search for their traitors at the embassy ball.

Jackson sat in a small, cold, ante-room, staring uncomfortably at the white screen that had been set into the wall. Two section three agents stood by the door, and two section 2 agents were right beside him. One sitting very close, the other standing right behind his chair. It made Jackson feel uncomfortable to be watched so closely.

"I thought I was supposed to be one of you guys now?" He protested as the attractive female agent, Miss Hazel Tyler readied the extension from the computer room next door, where her co-workers were busily checking the sound and visual aid link to the bug and the mini-camera that Agent Mark Slate was wearing. The section two man beside him Sam Darkly, harrumphed loudly.

"Plenty of time for you to earn our trust. Your employers, or rather your former employers recently killed our two very best men, who are…were very good friends of ours. All of us here at UNCLE are feeling even less friendly towards THRUSH than usual, so the minute you put a toe out of line…"

Jackson raised his hands in surrender.

"Hey, no sweat. I'm sorry about your friends, really. I'm just a security guard. That's all I ever was for THRUSH. I swear I'm not about to try anything…wow!"

He broke off with a whistle of admiration as a vision of loveliness appeared in the doorway.

"Miss Sweet!"

"Actually, in the real world, the name is April Dancer."

"Wow, you look…like you stepped out of a fairytale!"

April did indeed look stunning. Her blue gown had a close fitting off the shoulder bodice, decorated with sequins; at the hips the dress was huge and floaty, like a great blue waterfall. Her lovely auburn hair was rolled on her head in a mass of curls and fronted by a diamond tiara. She entered the room and took Jackson's hand lightly.

"I'm informed that you…" she trailed off, but Jackson nodded.

"…have been persuaded to leave THRUSH. Yes."

April looked into his eyes.

"Why were you there at all? You always seemed to me to be too gentle to be any serious threat."

Jackson looked slightly put out at that.

"I was supposed to be intimidating; like a night club bouncer. I seemed to intimidate the drunks and trouble-makers well enough on Saturday nights in the clubs."

He failed to notice the male agents in the room grinning at one another. April smiled slightly.

"I'm sure you did, but…no offense Jackson, but I'm a Section Two agent with U.N.C.L.E." She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the nose.

"If you want a short-cut to being trusted, keep your eyes peeled this evening. We suspect someone from the Embassy is a T.H.R.U.S.H double agent, and we need you to keep my partner Agent Slate up to speed with everyone you see in the room who you know to be THRUSH."

Jackson nodded.

"I can do that. You really do brush up okay Miss Sw…er…Miss Dancer."

April chuckled.

"I'll take that as a complement." She turned to the other agents in the room.

"You also know what sorts of things to keep your eyes peeled for. If you see anything, let Mark know; but remember he will be doing a job at the same time. If you cause him to drop his tray we will lose our inside man."

"Why don't you wear a wire ma'am? See more with two of you all wired up." Agent Darius Fielding suggested seriously. April raised her eyebrows at him.

"Any suggestions as to wear I might put it? This dress was chosen for me, and it was not designed to be worn by someone working undercover."

The man turned pink and Jackson smirked behind his hand.

"I reckon your job is to attract attention and let your buddy do the dangerous work, right?"

April had just turned to leave the room, and his remark caused her to stop and look back.

"When this is over, Mister Jackson, I'll take you along to the gym shall I, and I'll show you what my job is really all about."

With that she turned and flounced out of the room, her skirts swinging regally behind her. Jackson looked taken aback.

"What did I say?"

Darkly shook his head.

"Shows how much you THRUSHes know about UNCLE!" he remarked with a slight laugh. "UNCLE women are all highly trained in self-defense and martial arts, and they are just the secretaries and clerical assistants. April is a cut above all of them. She's Section Two."

"What does that mean?"

"Section Two are the field agents. April eats guys like you for breakfast every day out in the field. Now that Solo and Kuryakin are dead, Dancer and Slate are the best we have. If you let her take you down to the gym, first make sure your medical insurance is up to date."

"But she looks so…"

Darkly nodded, grinning.

"Yup!"

 

Mark Slate had spent seven months of his adolescence waiting tables in the restaurant of his local hotel The Cocked Hat, and he had eventually been dismissed for getting into an argument with a particularly vitriolic customer which had ended with his tipping the man's tankard of beer into his lap. Needless to say, Mark had never felt that he had missed his calling, and to find himself once again waiting tables and carrying silver trays of expensive champagne around a crowded ballroom filled with rich and upper-crust guests, who noticed only the tray but never the man carrying it, was certainly not the stuff his dreams were made of. Mark wondered if they would even notice if the tray had drifted among them, floating unsupported. Perhaps they all assumed that it did, for all the notice they took. Already he had been bumped into twice from behind, and then sworn at by the perpetrator; his right foot had been stepped on by one very heavy person wearing a particularly sharp and pointed stiletto heel…his right big toe was still smarting from that one. At the same time, he was having to listen to a running commentary in his right ear by the agents back at headquarters sitting with that fellow Jackson, commenting on the fashions of everyone woman in sight. He wished he had a microphone connected to his ear-piece, as he would have liked to have declared an end to it all. In fact, the only voice he had not heard at all was Jackson. He wondered why that was.

As Mark divested himself of his last full glass of champagne and started to collect the empties, he took another long searching look around the room. Suddenly he heard a loud "Hush!" in his ear, surprisingly, it was Jackson's voice. The babble of chatter switched itself off as if by magic, and Mark had only Jackson's low, confident tones in his ear. Clearly, whatever the rest of the guys were doing, eyeing up the talent, Jackson had been taking his duties seriously.

"Agent Slate, look round the room again as you did just now…STOP! Back…There! The man standing beneath the glitter ball in the ceiling…tuxedo with red cummerbund, red bow tie…bald head with the thin comb-over hairstyle. Yes, that's the one. His name is Sidney Halloway. He owns the house on Long Island where you found me. He's not officially a member of THRUSH, but is extremely wealthy and he invests in people he thinks THRUSH may one day have an interest in… scientists and the like. He gets them in a position where they are indebted to him, then he sells their services to THRUSH. His only living relation is his brother-in-law Antonio Del-Paglio, and Antonio's daughter Olivia. Olivia is there talking to him…see? She is the sole beneficiary of his will. She IS a member of THRUSH, as is her father."

Mark had no way of acknowledging Jackson's words vocally, accept with a pre-arranged signal of momentarily clapping his hand over his bow tie, where his hidden camera was located. He filled his tray with empty champagne flutes and made his way through the throng towards the servants' pantry. As he passed a beautiful young red haired woman wearing an exquisite blue ball-gown, he paused briefly.

"May I have your empty glasses ladies and gentlemen?"

He gave no sign of recognizing Alexander Waverly or April Dancer, but as they put their flutes on his tray, he muttered without moving his lips;

"Comb-over beneath the glitter ball…and his niece."

Without looking back, Mark vanished from the ball room to collect another prepared salver of champagne for the thirsty guests.

MFU

Jackson saw the camera fade to black for a moment, as Mark's hand obscured the lens, and Darkly nodded in satisfaction.

"He understood. He'll pass that on to April. Keep looking though Jackson. April knows that bird Olivia already. Anyone else there you recognize?"

Jackson was scanning the available footage desperately. Unfortunately, at this moment, Mark was in the process of washing out dirty champagne flutes, drying them carefully until they sparkled and then very carefully refilling them under the eagle eye of the Butler. Suddenly he almost leapt out of his seat and shouted.

"Hey! I remember!"

Darkly and the others jumped. Mark jumped visibly, as Jackson's bellow had been conveyed loudly into his ear. He managed to avoid dropping anything, and put his full tray down again, his heart pounding in shock. Mark felt someone grab his arm.

"Hey, move yourself buddy, those people out there are not gonna come in and fetch them for themselves now, are they?"

Mark nodded to the head waiter and took up his tray of flutes once more. He listened carefully to Jackson's exited apology and explanation of his outburst, while at the same time making his way through to the center of the room to offer the drinks.

"Sorry, guys." Jackson was saying contritely, "I wondered who the fellow was when he came to the house. I recognized him a few minutes ago, but I couldn't remember why. Now I do."

"Well? Who? Spit it out man!" Mark heard Agent Fielding exclaim. There was a pause, then Jackson spoke again almost apologetically.

"He came out to Long Island, but it was only once. About… what? Six or more weeks ago now? I remember Del Paglio abused him for coming to the house in person and said he should have used their usual method of communication…"

"What was that?" came Darkly's voice.

"No idea." Jackson replied. "The guy just said it was too urgent and that there was no time to arrange anything else. He said something about having received a message about some Russian Mine that the KGB destroyed, and some valuable intelligence had come to light as a result."

"What else was said?"

"I don't know. They went into the study and locked the door after themselves. It was the man who was talking to Mister Waverly and Miss Dancer."

Mark almost dropped his tray in shock. The man talking to April and Waverly was Waverly's old friend…or rather acquaintance as Waverly had put it. He was an important man in the Embassy apparently. All Mark knew about the guy was that his father had been a Russian ballet dancer, and his mother a British Ballet student. He had never known his father and after the death of his mother he had defected to the Soviet Union. Clearly he had since progressed a long way. Mark tried hard to remember what Mister Waverly had said about the man's position. First Secretary, that was it. The Ambassador's Chief of Staff.

Mark made his circle of the room with his tray of drinks as nonchalantly as he could, and made sure that he passed by his partner on his way back to the pantry. As he passed her, he cleared his throat in their pre-arranged signal. April blinked suddenly in apparent confusion.

"Is it hot in here?" She asked faintly. Mister Waverly touched her shoulder lightly.

"Are you all right my dear?" He asked her concernedly. April wiped the back of her hand across her face.

"I think it's too hot in here…" she murmured, and fainted. Mark caught her deftly. He looked up.

"I'll take her to the library, sir. It is cool in there and the young lady will have privacy in order to recover."

"I'll come along and help see that she is all right." Waverly replied with a nod. "Will you excuse us for a moment, Sebastian?"

His companion nodded.

"I'll pass the word to the servants that you are not to be disturbed. You, sir, Mister…Slate isn't it? I wish you to stay with the young lady until Mister Waverly no longer has need of your presence."

"Sir!"

Mark nodded briskly, as he scooped April into his arms, her voluminous skirts making walking difficult. Mark carried April in his arms through the crowd, Mister Waverly answering queries as to the young lady's welfare, until they reached the main entrance hall. Mark led them round to the left, through a door and along a short corridor which opened out into a wide and cool library, literally stuffed with books of all types. Waverly followed them inside and closed the door. He hurried across the room and joined Mark as he laid his partner down on the couch. April did not stir. Mark looked up at Waverly.

"Is this room clear?" Waverly asked. Mark nodded.

"I knew we might need somewhere to lay a young lady who is overcome by the heat, so I checked out this room thoroughly sir. It is ideal for the purpose."

They both looked down at April. She opened first one eye, then the other.

"It's safe for me to wake up now?"

Mark grinned at her.

"For a lass who can fight and arm-wrestle as well as you can luv, you did a pretty good job of getting the vapours!"

April's eyes were laughing.

"That Jackson thinks I am a weak and feeble woman, Mark. This performance will not have done much to persuade him otherwise."

"Weak and feeble? After you knocked him out with that high kick of yours?"

She shrugged.

"I dunno, maybe he has a white horse and some shining armour stashed away somewhere hoping to find some damsel to rescue with it."

She sat up, and Waverly sat on the couch beside her, rubbing her shoulder, just in case there was any hidden cameras in the room that Mark had not discovered in his search earlier.

"What have you learned, Mark?" She asked him. Mark looked troubled and turned to their boss.

"Sir…Jackson pointed out a few people in the crowed who are members of the Long Island satrap, including the chap who owns the house, but he got all excited at one point and shouted out. I almost dropped the tray I was carrying. He said he had spotted someone he recognized as visiting Long Island a few weeks ago to talk about something that had been discovered after the destruction of some Ukrainian Mine…"

Mark paused for effect and saw his companions catch their breaths. They looked at him expectantly. Mark frowned. Waverly started to become impatient.

"Well come on man, spit it out. Who was it? That has to be our traitor!"

Mark glanced at April and then turned to Waverly.

"I'm sorry sir, but according to Jackson, it is your friend, sir. Sebastian Koskov."

 

In Waverly's office the following day, April, Mark, Jackson and the Section Two Agents Darkly and Fielding sat around the table as the footage recorded at the reception the previous evening was replayed. Jackson kept up a running commentary of several people in the room whom had been guests from the Long Island satrap. The thing was, none of them had done or said anything remotely suspicious all evening. Then the footage showed Mark approaching April and Waverly, talking to a tall, dark and handsome man in his early thirties wearing a black tuxedo with effortless ease. He leapt to his feet and pointed.

"Him, that man you are talking to Mister Waverly, he's the one who came by the house a few weeks ago. He's THRUSH!"

Alexander Waverly's mouth became a thin line. He had known Sebastian Koskov for several years, ever since the Soviet Government had first sent him to the Russian Embassy as a lowly assistant. Now he had risen to be First Secretary, a man with a lot of clout. How could he have been a THRUSH agent all along under his nose without him even guessing? Waverly wondered if he wasn't starting to lose his touch? His agents were all watching him closely, waiting for him to speak. After a long pause, Waverly glanced at Mark.

"Mister Slate, you mixed with many of the servants below stairs. Was there anything else you saw or heard that might be relevant in this sorry tale?"

Chewing his lip, Mark put his head to one side.

"I've been racking my brains sir, but nothing untoward comes to mind. The Embassy waiting staff were pretty close-lipped around me, being an outsider, and English to boot. They were all polite and efficient, but nothing revealing was said or implied in my hearing. That chap Koskov came below stairs briefly after all the guests had left or retired for the evening and thanked everyone for doing a good job. He thanked me for looking after his good friend, Mister Waverly's date so well after she collapsed, and told me that he will be sending a favourable report to my agency about my hard work throughout the evening. Apparently the fact that I didn't drop, spill or throw anything all evening goes a long way to making me a passable waiter."

"You didn't observe him or any of the other THRUSH people talking to anyone that struck you as out of place or odd?"

Mark frowned. April nudged him.

"You've thought of something. What?"

Mark nodded slowly.

"Well, it's not something anyone said exactly…but did you notice that the fellow Halloway and your young friend Livvy, April, were standing beneath that giant glitter ball last evening?"

"Yes…" April's eyes widened. "Of course, yes, I see! Oh partner, you are good!"

"What?" Waverly turned tired eyes on the pair. Jackson and the other two agents looked confused. April explained.

"Halloway and Livvy Del Paglio were standing in the exact center of the ballroom last night…all evening. They did not move from that spot, either of them. They did not dance or mingle. They stayed in that one place for the entire evening."

Mark nodded.

"And if you remember, Mister Waverly, your friend Sebastian did not move either. He was standing with you and April, and whenever you two moved away to speak to others or to dance, he stayed put. Other people came to talk to him instead."

Waverly nodded. He looked round at his agents…and Jackson. So they had found their man inside the Embassy, it seemed. Now to find out who within UNCLE was his contact. He blinked, and looked round the room. He could guess what was in their minds. There was one very definite contact within UNCLE, sitting here in this very room. Waverly himself. They were looking for an UNCLE traitor, a double agent or an informer, someone who was close to Koskov, and someone who was in the position to be able to pass on privileged information. He knew the traitor was not himself, but they would be wrong to discount him as a suspect simply because he was the chief. He stood up.

"Mister Slate, Miss Dancer, as you are our current joint CEA agents, you will, for the time being, take command of this investigation. You will need to set some kind of trap perhaps, do whatever you need to, to identify our UNCLE traitor. When you have decided the actions to take, you will not inform me of them."

"Sir?" Fielding looked slightly bemused. Waverly gave a bittersweet smile.

"Mister Fielding, considering that I am Koskov's only contact that we know for certain about within UNCLE, that makes me currently your chief suspect. So for the time being, Mister Slate and Miss Dancer will be your acting chiefs and will take full charge until the identity of our mole can be proven beyond a doubt. Until that time, I am to know nothing of your activities. Just be certain that you do not cross any lines, understood?"

He stood up.

"I am going to activate my home office system, so that anything that comes up that requires my personal authorization can be redirected to me. Contact me whenever you need to. Oh, and Mister Slate…"

"Sir?"

"Good luck. The future of UNCLE could well be depending upon you and Miss Dancer."

With that, Alexander Waverly left the room, suddenly looking very much older. Mark and April exchanged glances. They would need to find a way to expedite this investigation. Damn that fellow Koskov. Of course Waverly was not the mole. But procedure was procedure. Once Waverly was gone and out of earshot, Mark got up from his seat.

"Very well, we need a plan. Any ideas?"

Jackson sat quietly in his seat, feeling suddenly very uncomfortable. He too understood the implications of all that had passed in the last few minutes. He couldn't help wishing that he had not been here to witness all of that, but he was. He was now unavoidably a part of this thing. He genuinely liked that remarkable old man, and having formerly been THRUSH himself, he couldn't help but feel a portion of the blame for what had happened to him. But how to help? He frowned and leaned forward in his chair. April glanced round.

"Jackson?"

"April…do you have a way of…er…some kind of invisible tracking solution? Mister Slate, Mister Waverly said something about laying a trap. Why not release, sort of accidentally, that you know who the Embassy Mole is, and that you have documentary proof of it, locked up in your desk. When your UNCLE mole hears the rumour, he or she will want to destroy it, right?"

"Good plan, but files get moved about all the time. It has to be more foolproof than that…"

April grabbed Mark's elbow.

"Mark, something Illya was telling me about before they…uh… well anyway, I remember him telling me that he had been working with R and D department on some kind of tracking solution. Something that fluoresces under ultraviolet light, but is invisible and untraceable under normal conditions. This stuff comes off on everyone it touches and can only be washed off with some particular solution."

"So anyone with this stuff on their fingers, say, would be leaving an ultraviolet trail behind them wherever they go?"

April nodded. Mark nodded thoughtfully.

"But how to get hold of some without asking a member of R and D? Who knows but that the real mole might be a member of that department?" he asked. April smiled.

"As it happens, I know where we can get some. As its' primary creator, Illya was testing it himself. He had some in his apartment."

"Everything in Solo and Kuryakin's apartments have been removed and placed into storage." Darkly reminded them. Mark shook his head.

"Solo's belongings have gone to his family, and they have secure his apartment for the time being. Kuryakin's belongings were crated up and sent to Solo's people. They'll have it stashed in an attic somewhere."

Darkly looked unhappy.

"I don't envy the lucky person who has the job of having to visit Napoleon's family. Not under the circumstances."

Mark and April exchanged glances.

"Well someone has to do it." April replied. "Darkly, you and I will travel out to visit the Solos. Mark?"

"Jackson and Fielding can work together on creating a document that will fool anyone, both UNCLE and THRUSH alike. Myself, I have one or two other matters that I need to catch up with. I need to talk to the head of section three. All right, we'd better get to work."


	21. A Gruesome Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Waverly framed for treason, Mark and April take over the investigation, and then a nasty discovery is made...

Pulling up at the side of the road, April covered her face with her hands and for a moment she sat there, taking deep, gulping breaths. Sam Darkly twisted slightly to look at her.

"You okay there, ma'am?"

April smiled wanly at him and nodded.

"That has to be about the hardest thing I have ever had to do."

Darkly nodded.

"I expected them to be bitter, or angry at us or something. But they were all just so nice!"

"Mister Solo's family are always gracious and welcoming, even when the skies are falling around them. Right now, I think it might have almost been easier if they had been less grateful for a visit."

"At Least they haven't thrown any of Mister Kuryakin's belongings away anyway."

"I knew they wouldn't do that. All of those things in that crate, Sam, represent Illya's whole life since he arrived in this country."

"A record player, a set of china, some books and records? That's it? That's his entire life summed up? Not much of a legacy for a man to leave behind."

"I know. But he's saved lives, Sam. Mine, Mark's, Napoleon's many times, Mister Waverly's too…Illya became almost like a son to Napoleon's mother."

"They're the ones who organized Illya's memorial service, right?"

April nodded and breathed deeply, wiping her eyes.

"Yes…look, can we stop talking about this? It's just too…"

Darkly nodded in understanding, and April pulled back into the traffic.

Mark Slate sat in Waverly's chair, with the head of section three Devlin Maseko sitting opposite.

Maseko had never had a great deal to do with Agent Mark Slate in the past, and he had to admit that from the distance, Slate had never really made a huge impression. Sitting here now, though, with the man sitting in Mister Waverly's chair, fixing him with a very direct, almost Illya-esque stare, he had to admit that Mark was making more of an impression now.

"So, you completed the full security check?"

"Yes…sir."

"And?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary, sir."

"What about the secret surveillance of the canteen and kitchens?"

"Consistently under camera surveillance sir ever since yesterday. We have not yet viewed the tapes."

Mark stared at the man.

"Wait, you've been recording the action, but no one has been monitoring live? Are you sure you remember what it at stake here Mister Maseko?"

Maseko looked indignant.

"Of course I remember, but I have had half my force seconded into the full sweep of the building and systems, several of my men sent out on bodyguard duty, and those available for the live monitoring I considered too green to be…"

He broke off as Mark held up his hand.

"All right, all right. We don't have time for this!" Mark interjected, and then he paused and rubbed his eyes. "We can at least view these tapes ourselves and if we see something happening that shouldn't be, recorded evidence will be exactly what we need. Let's pipe it through here right now shall we, and see what we can see?"

The two men watched carefully as the meals were prepared, and they watched as the UNCLE cook prepared the tray for the prisoner. Last night's supper, one paper cup of tea, one of orange juice and one of water, a plastic plate loaded with roast potatoes, baked ham and green vegetables, a large slice of chocolate cake in a large napkin. They saw a large napkin laid out on the thin plastic tray, and a plastic knife and fork laid on top of it. So far, so good.

Mark carefully made notes of everything he was seeing, and they moved on to the next meal. Breakfast this morning. Simply several slices of buttered toast in a napkin, and the usual three paper cups; one of tea, one of orange juice and one of water. Mark nodded to Maseko in dismissal.

"Do you want me to continue monitoring?"

Mark nodded.

"For the time being…view the tapes yourself if you would…looking out for anything that strikes you as odd…out of the ordinary. I'm sure you know the kind of thing and let me know if you come up with anything. I need to compare our information here with our prisoner."

George Dennell was once again on duty watching Moran on the view-screen. He waited for Mark to give the security knock then unlocked the door.

"It isn't time for you to relieve me yet is it?"

"No. Who was on last night?"

George glanced at the list in front of him.

"It should have been Malcom Tanner, but he came down with food poisoning...he called me and asked me to cover, or to arrange cover. I agreed and was just leaving when I had a call from Mister Waverly telling me that he had covered it himself and not to worry."

Mark frowned.

"What shift was that for George?"

"Twenty-thirty hours until twenty-three hundred hours…that's strange, the space has been left blank. No one signed in."

The two men looked at each other.

"George, you said Waverly called you? What exactly did he say?"

"He said he was going to cover that time himself, so I needn't worry until morning."

Mark nodded.

"Mister Waverly would not sign in on the register because he is able to monitor everything from his office. There is one big problem. Waverly could not possibly have told you that he was going to cover himself."

Dennell's eyebrows raised.

"Well that's what he said, why?"

Mark looked George in the eye.

"Because Alexander Waverly was at the Russian Embassy from seven o'clock yesterday evening, until just after midnight. There are approximately two-hundred guests to confirm that…including my partner and myself. When did he telephone you?"

"Some time before midday I guess."

"Were you at home?"

"Of course not, I was in my office catching up on some reports."

"Can you get your secretary to check the phone records and find out where that telephone call came from?"

"Sure. Right now?"

"If you wouldn't mind."

"Okay, I'll be right back."

Mark set his sights on the screen in front of him and at the same time, running his eyes over the journal of events left by everyone watching the day before. Same old, same old. Moran had very little to do stuck in his cell. Mark couldn't help feeling a little sorry for the man. But looking at him now he seemed to be keeping his sanity together by continuing his enraged ranting.

The longer Mark watched the security screen, the more he began to feel like he had seen this before. The first shift he had spent in here, Moran had been ranting and pacing in this exact same way. And yet the other watchers had reported that although the ranting still happened every so often, the man had started to calm down a lot more. This agitation was of a man who was newly incarcerated and determined that shouting alone might be enough to melt all the locks. Mark shook his head.

"This is not right."

He took his communicator out of his pocket.

"Miss Rogers."

"Miss Rogers here." Came her voice almost immediately.

"Switch to secure channel please."

"Channel secured. What's happened, Mister Slate?"

"I need you to check the camera feeds from Mister Waverly's office. The recordings of the prisoner's wing. Have the tapes been copied or is the computer being tapped? Can you check it out straight away for me and let me know what you discover?"

"Right away sir."

Biting his lip, Mark sat back in his chair, thoughtfully watching the screens.

Twenty minutes passed and there came the sound he was waiting for. The security knock. He opened the door and found both George Dennell and Lisa Rogers standing there looking ill-at-ease. They entered and stood before him both shuffling. Mark raised one eyebrow.

"I take it from your expressions that both of you have bad news for me?"

They nodded in unison. Mark nodded.

"Very well, George, what did you come up with?"

"The computer voice authentication system confirms that the voice on the phone was definitely Alexander Waverly, and the call came from his office."

Mark nodded slowly, taking in the information and turned to Miss Rogers.

"The computers in Mister Waverly's office…they are not being tapped…but I can confirm that someone directly in the office at some time since the original footage was recorded, has made a duplicate of a portion of it…it has to be someone with adequate seniority to have access to the entire computer system. But, there is some good news."

She handed a small box to Mark who stared at it, turning it over and over in his hands. He looked up in surprise.

"Is this what I think it is?"

She nodded.

"It is a sort of transponder…designed to tap into telephones…if this was to get out into the open market, criminal types would have a field day with it. If you program a phone number into this device and then hide it in the vicinity of that particular phone, you can make any phone call, from anywhere, to anywhere in the world, and the call will always be routed through that chosen telephone. The chosen phone would receive all the phone bills, and the original caller would be all but untraceable…at least without highly specialized equipment."

"Hmm." Mark mused. He picked up his communicator once again.

"Security, send a team down to the cell block immediately and check upon our newest prisoner. Report to me in the security office."

"Yes sir," came a voice from the communicator. Mark rubbed his chin.

"Someone has copied a portion of our surveillance material on Moran and is playing it to us here and now. Which suggests that the prisoner is no longer in his cell. Someone has seemingly got a recording of Waverly's voice and played it to George in a telephone call that has been deliberately routed through Waverly's office. Thanks to that phone call, we know there was a two-and-a-half-hour break yesterday evening where no one was watching the security cameras. Plenty of time for someone to get in there and visit, speak to or rescue our prisoner. If it wasn't for this transponder device, all the evidence would seem to point to Alexander Waverly."

"Unless the transponder was put there by Waverly to throw some of the suspicion away…"

Mark stared at George, who fingered his collar uneasily and gave a nervous laugh.

"Just a suggestion…"

"Whatever happened during those two-and-a-half hours, was not Waverly. He was a guest at the Russian Embassy at the time… remember?"

"Sir, did everyone know about the Embassy Ball last night?" George asked. Mark glanced at Lisa who shook her head.

"Only a few…I did, Heather did, Darkly and Fielding, Foster and Sambrook of section three, the new fellow from THRUSH, Jackson…but they were all together for the entire evening…in Waverly's office watching live camera work from the Embassy. Most of the staff knew nothing about it. A lot of the women saw Agent Dancer in her ball gown, and she simply told them she was going to a fancy dress party dressed as Cinderella at the ball. No one thought twice about it."

At that moment, Mark's communicator pen blipped. He picked it up and activated it.

"Slate here,"

"Sir, you had better get down here."

"I told you to report to me in the security office."

"Sir, it is important that you come down here and see for yourself."

Mark glanced at George.

"Continue here for a bit? I'll see that you're relieved as soon as possible."

"Of course."

Mark and Lisa left the room. Lisa returned to her duties and Mark headed for the elevator. He found a man from security waiting for him when the doors slid open.

"This way, sir."

Mark knew the way already, but he could see this man was agitated and wondered what was the cause of it. Half way down the corridor he met a second security man, who nodded formally and let them pass, then rather than follow, he remained where he was. Mark was aware that something grave must be awaiting him at the end of the corridor. He arrived at the cell door, where the security chief was standing with two men. The cell door was closed.

"Mister Slate, sir."

"What have you found, Chivers?"

Chief Chivers pulled back the narrow grill which afforded a very restricted view of the cell. The prisoner was nowhere in sight. Mark frowned.

"What, is he asleep or something?"

Chivers shook his head.

"No sir. We found the door locked, but there was no sound from the prisoner. The last meal delivered has not been eaten. The prisoner knows that if he does not replace the tray on the ledge, he will not receive any more meals. The tray was absent, and his next meal is almost due. I thought it prudent to unlock his door to ascertain the state of his health."

"And what did you find?" Asked Mark, half afraid of the answer. In reply, Chivers unlocked the door and swung it open. Moran lay on the floor of his cell in a pool of blood. His throat had been cut. Mark stared, and then turned to Chivers.

"No one has entered this cell? Picked up anything? Touched or removed anything?"

"No sir."

Chivers was the most honest and upright man Mark had ever known. He had reached his position within UNCLE by merit alone. If he said no one had touched or removed anything, then it was true. Mark nodded.

"Well, there is no weapon in there, so whoever did this has walked…or run…away with a bloodied knife in their possession, and likely blood on themselves too. Is that likely?"

He looked up at Chivers.

"Keep this area completely secure for the time being. I will send down Doctor Simpson, and he will arrange for the body to be removed. I like the way you arranged your security along the corridors. If you could secure this entire wing similarly, I would be obliged."

"Can I take two men away from guard duty?"

"Guarding whom?"

"Jackson, sir…the fellow you captured from THRUSH."

"Yes, he is being taken care of for now directly by section two. Call me if you need to."

"Sir." Chivers nodded and walked away, communicator in hand to begin his deployment. Mark made his way back to the elevator, his communicator in his hand.

"Open Channel D. April?"

"Channel D. April here. Hi Mark."

"Where are you?"

"UNCLE garage. Mission successful."

There was a slight catch in her voice that Mark did not miss.

"It couldn't have been easy. Are you all right partner?"

"I'm okay Mark. I feel so sorry for Mrs. Solo. We'll be up in two ticks."

"Meet you in our office."

Mark signed off and stepped into the elevator. They definitely had a traitor within UNCLE walls. Once he arrived in the office he shared with his partner, he sat at his desk just a moment before April and Sam came in. Mark picked up the telephone and held up a hand to his partner to stop them speaking for the moment.

"Lisa? Good. Can you get me Mister Waverly's home number please? …Hello, Mrs. Waverly? …Hello, it's Mark Slate here…no, that is quite all right, it was you I need to speak to if you don't mind. I just wanted to ask did Mister Waverly make it home all right? The traffic was pretty bad and we were concerned that's all…he is? Good. Do you mind telling me what time he arrived? I need you to do me a favour… whatever happens, until I speak to either of you again ma'am, do not let him out of your sight or hearing….no, there is no danger, but there is a good reason why we need your husband to stay at home until I call back. If he argues with you Mrs. Waverly, tell him I called and he will at least understand the reason…thank you so much Mrs. Waverly…goodbye ma'am."

April and Sam were looking at him strangely.

"What's happened to bring that on?"

"Someone has been trying hard to frame Mister Waverly as the THRUSH mole." He told her, "but fortunately for us, they have made mistakes. Close the door, Sam, and I'll bring you up to speed."

Mark explained to them what had been discovered so far. April looked up.

"George is watching for nothing, then."

Darkly looked bleak.

"So how do you intend to play this one Guv? If someone is feeding recordings into the security room, that suggests that they don't want you to find the body yet, but as soon as the next meal is sent down the balloon will go up anyway."

"I know. I considered keeping up the farce of keeping watch and all of that, but it's a waste of time really. April, will you go and let George know what has happened and cancel the watch program for me? By the way, you got that stuff of Illya's?"

She nodded and handed over a small phial with a rubber stopper.

"I suspect you would use a small nailbrush or something to paint it on."

Mark and Sam glanced at each other. Sam guffawed.

"I don't carry nailbrushes around with me through the day, what about you, Guv?"

"No, nor me. I don't suppose you would…?"

"Well, when I have spoken to Mister Dennell, I will return and see what I can find."

With that, she smiled sweetly and left the room.


	22. Katiya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya finally meets his niece, but things never do go quite to plan...

The helicopter flight was not a long one. No more than fifteen minutes or so, but it was enough to start both men wondering what would await them when they reached their destination. Kir Yuriyev Kossov might have been an absentee father, Napoleon mused, but it seemed obvious he had no intention of being an absentee grandfather. The response they had received from him back at the satrap communications array was more that of a concerned relation, than of an enraged senior officer to an underling. His appeal to `Mikhail' was that of a parent appealing to an errant son. So would he receive them as members of THRUSH, or as family? They would soon know.

Soon the chopper started to spiral slowly down to land. Napoleon and Illya glanced out and saw they were coming down on a specially built helipad situated on the broad plateau at the top of a hill. Woodlands covered much of the lower slopes of the hill, and rolling fields as far as the eye could see. At the foot of the hill, a large, very beautiful lake reflected the blue of the sky. They could just make out a tiny jetty with a couple of boats bobbing beside it. Half way down the slope, where the ground evened out a little, a large house made of white stone sat smiling across the countryside. Behind the house, they could just make out part of a paddock containing several ponies grazing placidly.

To Napoleon's great surprise, the THRUSH general himself was waiting at the edge of the helipad to greet them in person. Whilst it was too much to say he greeted them with beaming smiles and arms open wide, he certainly wore a genuine smile, and Solo thought he detected a certain frankness in his manner. Not exactly what he had expected of a THRUSH general. Illya at his side seemed tense, but quite on top of his feelings; at least for the time being.

"Mika, my dear boy, Welcome. Katiya was really excited when we told her you were coming. If you don't mind, she is not here just at present. I thought we should have a little space to talk, so her nanny has taken her out for a ride on her pony. They will be back within the hour, I assure you."

"Papa."

Illya allowed the older man to embrace him and kiss him on both cheeks, and returned the gesture.

"This is my aide, Boris Abramovich Popov."

Kossov's eyebrows furrowed.

"I seem to remember someone of that name…a kid your great grandfather adopted. That brother of yours used to follow him around like a faithful puppy when you two were kids."

Illya nodded.

"Well we don't know his true name. He came out of Korea with barely his life and almost no memory of who he was before. He has never spoken since the day he awakened in the field hospital. I gave him the name because it was the one name that came readily to mind."

"Oh, really?"

"The original Boris would keep poking his long inquisitive nose into my business. This man though is loyal."

"Loyal to whom? To THRUSH?"

Illya shook his head pointedly.

"No, he is loyal to me."

Kossov nodded, with a guarded smile.

"Ah, he is your protection then."

"If necessary, yes. He fulfills that function for me, as I do for him. He speaks…or rather he understands Russian, French and English."

"So if you know nothing of his background, he could well be English or French for all you know."

Illya nodded.

"Yes, that is true. But he could well be the Russian he claims to be. Enough of this please. I'm sure you have something to discuss more important than my associate here."

Kossov nodded.

"Of course my dear boy. I'm forgetting my manners. Come into the house."

Inside, the house itself was as grand as it appeared on the outside, and yet the décor seemed a great deal more down-to-earth than Napoleon had expected. It felt…homely. Rather than filling the place with expensive statues, and paintings by Vincent Van Gogh and Ilya Repin, the furniture was simple and attractive, the walls covered with photographs of the local scenery, and drawings made by some childish but still surprisingly recognizable hand.

"Come into my study, where we can talk in private."

Kossov's study was bare, even austere, without anything at all to indicate the owner even knew what a child was, let alone was an apparently devoted grandfather. They sat on hard wooden chairs, whilst Kossov poured a glass of vodka for each of them. Kossov and Illya swallowed theirs in a single gulp. Napoleon, realizing he had no choice, followed suit. Immediately he was refilled, and was relieved when it seemed he would not be called upon to repeat the performance. He was sure he would not be able to swallow his vodka down a second time without coughing his lungs up. He regarded his partner thoughtfully. Illya seemed to be waiting for something, and he was not in a hurry. Finally, the other realized that Mikhail was not about to open the discussion himself and sat back in his chair in a relaxed way, although the way he watched his two visitors indicated he was not as relaxed as he appeared.

"I know you have come here to take your daughter away Mika, but I must beg you not to do so."

"Leave my daughter alone?"

"Hardly alone, Mika. I am her grandfather."

"I am her father."

Illya felt a sudden flutter inside him even as he said the words. The truth of his partner's pleas hitting him suddenly like a sledge-hammer.

"But Mikhail, you have no permanent home of your own any longer, you live wherever THRUSH puts you. Now my daughter has died, the house she was living in has been taken over by other tenants, so you do not even have that place to return to. How on earth would you be able to provide for the child?"

"The same way any loving father provides for their child. I remember Anna telling me when we were young how much she missed her papa being away such a lot. I don't want my daughter to ever have to say that about me any longer."

"You don't have to Mika. You move in here too! Katiya can have you here all the time, and she would have us, this house, her pony, the boat on the lake…"

"With her papa and her dedushka members of THRUSH? Destined to grow up in the family business, papa? THRUSH have now betrayed me twice. How long will it take them to betray you once they realize that you have decided to settle down and become a family man rather than a dedicated general? Or are you still planning to bow to THRUSH's demands now you have my daughter on your hands? You think they will let you sweetly retire? You know THRUSH better than that."

Illya sat back and took a discontented swig from his glass. Kossov looked at the younger man thoughtfully.

"You know the THRUSH procedure for retirement? That is classified information."

Illya grunted derisively.

"To THRUSH minions maybe, but I'm not just another foot-soldier. Besides, THRUSH policy is common knowledge to members of UNCLE, and remember, I was undercover at UNCLE for more than a month before THRUSH ruined everything."

"That's pretty impressive. UNCLE'S top agent Napoleon Solo was your brother's partner wasn't he?"

Illya nodded.

"Even he never spotted me for who I really am. Up to the moment he died. He died believing with all his heart that I was his best friend and partner, Illya. Hah!"

The older man sat regarding Illya thoughtfully.

"Illya's dead…you know this for certain?"

Illya nodded.

"UNCLE Moscow have his body in their morgue. They believed for long enough that it was me, of course. When they learned that the body was that of their favourite, Illya, they released who I was and I had to make a run for it. You should have seen Solo's face."

Illya laughed derisively, taking care not to look at his partner. Kossov nodded.

"I don't suppose you know how he left his WILL? You're not a beneficiary are you? I was thinking, if he made you his beneficiary, that would give you ample to live on…and somewhere to live."

Illys's heart leapt into his mouth for a moment. Kossov knew about that? Even Mikhail had known nothing about that…the only person alive who knew was Illya himself…or so Illya had always believed. He had to make out he didn't know…Illya was dead. DEAD! He was Mikhail. He shook his head.

"How would I know anything about it? I seriously doubt I am even mentioned in passing. Illya and I had not seen each other in years."

"You kept tabs on him…"

"Yes, but he never kept tabs on me, I'm sure. Illya was always far too trusting. He probably believed me dead years ago. Illya's probably got no more than his meagre savings and whatever pension UNCLE offer these days."

"He was the sole beneficiary of the former Count Alexei Andreievich Dorokhov. You didn't know that? He received all the former count's money, his country dacha, and three villages in the Kyiv area."

Illya's eyes closed briefly, and he shook his head and spoke in almost a whisper.

"No, I didn't know it. How come you do?"

"Because THRUSH make it their business to know those things. THRUSH wanted the ownership of those villages, and Dorokhov knew it. He was a clever solicitor and he found a way to make sure that we were unable to get our hands on that property in perpetuity…unless Illya Nikovich Kuryakin chose to gift it to us."

"He would never have done that."

"How do you know that? I believe if he could have been captured alive, he could have been…coerced."

"Coerce my brother Illya? After all the occasions I know of when THRUSH had him under lock and key and were never able to force him to cooperate?"

Kossov smiled.

"There are always ways my dear boy…but unless he has left everything to either you or THRUSH, then that is a path we must abandon. The fact remains, you have nothing in the world to your name except that which belongs to THRUSH, and you can't…dammit man, she's a child! Not a commodity! You are welcome to live here and be her father, be the one to make all the important choices, everything a father ought to be, but you can't take her away when you have nothing. That isn't fair to her. She needs stability at least. Life with you would be a life of forever moving around, losing out on schooling, unable to ever make friends because papa's being moved on again…unless you intend leaving THRUSH. In which case, what would you do to earn money? You're good at being a rebel, but that pays very little, son."

"I have money Papa; you can rest easy on that!" Illya retorted. "There are things I can do which someone will pay me for…I have the right to take care of my own daughter!"

"And yet you refuse to move in here with me, where you can have the best of both worlds, and I wouldn't have to lose her?"

Illya knew in his heart what his brother would choose to do at this point, but he couldn't. He frowned. If he did take Katiya away, he knew he would have no trouble finding employment or somewhere to live; that was not the issue. Katiya would lose all of this luxury, and this old man clearly doted on the child. If he was going to insist on being with the child himself, the kindest thing for Katiya would be for him to move in here with her and her grandfather as per his suggestion. That would mean he would have to become Mikhail forever. Illya would be truly dead. He couldn't stomach living in so much luxury that obviously came ultimately from THRUSH coffers. Perhaps the kinder thing would be to leave any decision for the time being and take time to get to know the child first. Katiya was about six years old, so perhaps she would know herself where she would prefer to live…

At the back of his mind, Illya was aware that it would be totally unfair to expect a child to make that kind of momentous decision, but for the time being he refused to think about that. Time. Perhaps time would present another, more acceptable solution. Or perhaps Napoleon would bully him into doing what was actually the best thing…the right thing, however Illya might feel about the idea. Illya felt himself being torn into two. His logical, sensible nature at war with his human feelings. Usually he was able to suppress the emotional side of his nature, as being too unstable and unreliable; but right now he was finding it an effort. The sensible answer was there, sitting beside him in the shape of Napoleon Solo. He knew what he ought to do…but that great amorphous splodge of emotion; grief, loneliness and fear prominent among them, sat inside of him, like a great, grey fog. Seeing anything clearly through it was becoming more and more difficult.

Kossov could see the uncertainty enter the younger man's eyes and he picked up the Vodka bottle to top up their glasses.

"Well, let's leave the subject for now eh? We can all sleep on it. The babe…I mean Katiya should be getting home about now. Shall we go and see if we can find them?"

 

Napoleon squeezed his partner's elbow as Kossov turned his back to them to exit the room. He too could see the uncertainty in Illya's eyes, and the uncertainty was real. His partner was beginning to lose his way. His emotions were roiling; Solo could see that much clearly. Illya had never been the demonstrative type. Napoleon had had to learn how to read his partner, because Illya was never one for vocalizing what was on his mind, either. Now, Napoleon could usually tell by looking at Illya whether his emotions were raging internally or not. Looking at him right at this moment, the term `raging' hardly described what he saw in Illya's eyes. Illya paused for a moment, let his eyes meet those of his partner, then he turned away and followed Kossov from the room.

As they came out into the great hall, they could hear the clatter of feet and excited voices. The front door swung open and in rushed a little six-year-old girl in riding clothes talking excitedly at the top of her voice to someone behind her. The nanny, a handsome woman of around thirty entered a moment later, in the process of removing her jacket and remonstrating with the child to slow down. Illya stopped suddenly, causing Napoleon to cannon into him from behind. The little girl looked up and saw her grandfather strolling towards her down the length of the hall and a broad smile spread across her face.

"Deda!" She ran to him as fast as her little legs could carry her, and he swung her up in the air and swung her around before setting her back down on the floor.

"Did you enjoy your ride my little kitten?"

"We went right round the lake. My pony had to walk through water right up to her knees! She neighed at me!" the little girl informed him with a giggle. Her deda hugged her.

"Perhaps the water was cold. Kitten, we have a visitor…someone has come to see you!"

"Papa!" shouted the child, and looking round the hall, spied Illya and Napoleon stood beside the study door.

"Papa!" she shouted again, even louder, and she started to run towards him as fast as she could, her arms outstretched. Suddenly, reality hit Illya with an awful clarity.

What was he about to do to this child? How could he pretend to be her dad? His reasons were real, but they were entirely selfish. How could he do this to her?

He dropped to his heels, but to his, and everyone else's surprise, she stopped short just out of reach, and appeared to be staring at him full of surprise and curiosity. She slowly walked towards him and reached out a hand to touch his face. She wiped away a tear that escaped his eye and ran her hand down his face, tracing the contours. Illya closed his eyes, trying to hold it together. He almost succeeded…almost.

"You look just like my Papa!" she told him in a surprised but interested tone of voice. "You're not my Papa at all…but you look just like him. Why do you look like my Papa?"

The tears fell down Illya's face, and he hugged the little girl closely. God, how she looked like Mama!

For a moment, Napoleon, Kossov and even the child's nanny stared in wonder at the scene, then Kossov sprang to action. Reaching into his jacket, he withdrew a gun and pointed it at Napoleon.

"Nina, take Katiya to her room for a rest before supper, please."

The nanny hurried across the hall and took the child out of Illya's arms and hurried her up the stairs and out of sight. Kossov waited until they were out of earshot and his voice hardened.

"If you're not Mikhail, then who the devil are you? You…Boris? Get over there beside him. Hands in the air."

Illya felt Napoleon tensing up beside him and he looked at him directly. He shook his head.

"Cooperate with him." He told him in English. Napoleon arched his eyebrows, but he forced himself to relax. Kossov ordered them to remove their jackets, and then their shoes and watches, and then to turn their pockets inside out.

"Walk forward." He ordered them. He made them walk ahead of him through a door, along a corridor and through a second door that opened out on to a staircase heading down. Down they went, into the cellars. Not really to their surprise, they found that one of the cellar rooms had been converted to a cell, with no windows and a strong, studded oak door with the largest padlock Napoleon had ever seen. Once they were in there, Illya was made, at gunpoint, to lock his partner into a set of strong looking manacles. Once Napoleon was safely locked up. Kossov quickly secured Illya and then holstered his gun and sat back against the furthest wall, sitting on his heels. If anything, he looked disappointed.

"So now you are secured, you can tell me who you are."

"Never!" Napoleon snarled. Illya ignored his partner.

"Who do you think we are?"

"The only person you could be is Illya…but if you are Illya… where is my son-in-law?"

Illya's face betrayed him for a moment before the mask was back, but Kossov did not miss it. He blanched.

"You…you said that Illya's dead body was in the UNCLE morgue in Moscow. If there is a body there…that must mean that…"

Illya nodded.

"I am sorry Kir Yuriyev. It was Mikhail's body that was fished out of that mine. I was murdered whilst on duty in America… almost."

"So you came undercover as your brother? To do what? Find out who killed you…who tried to kill you? So what are you doing here? You have no right to that little girl! She is my daughter's child."

Kossov got to his feet and was almost at the door when Illya spoke very quietly indeed. Kossov stopped as though he had been shot.

"Yes, Kir Yuriyev, and family is more important than anything."

Kossov turned to face him and saw a tear streak down Illya's face before he quickly swiped it away.

"Mikhail was my brother, and Katiya is his daughter too…like many of our people I lost everyone I ever loved during the war…even Mika was torn away from me. Katiya is all the family I have left in the world…She has both of us. I have only…"

Illya's voice cracked, and he subsided and slid down on to the floor, his knees in the air. He wrapped his arms around his knees and buried his face.

Kir Yuriyev Kossov stood for some time, staring silently at his two prisoners, then he turned and left the cell.


	23. Who is the Traitor?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark and April put into operation a plan to uncover the traitor at UNCLE.

Headquarters was dark and silent. Only the regular skeleton night crew were on duty, ensuring that if something monumental happened during the wee small hours, there was someone available to respond. Sitting two blocks down the street in a private car park, the trailer of a ten-wheel articulated lorry had been seemingly dumped and abandoned for a few days. Inside though, the trailer was anything but abandoned. Fitted out as an outside headquarters for the U.N.C.L.E, it was rammed with gadgets and monitors. Every cctv camera inside headquarters, and a few new ones that had been secretly installed now fed their footage to these monitors alone. Watching them were Lisa and Heather, Agents Slate and Dancer, Darkly and Fielding, Foster and Sambrook.

"You two put a good document together." Slate commented. "Fielding, you're sure that it will fool anyone from THRUSH?"

Fielding nodded.

"We included enough detail to get them worried, but not so much as to make them panic. Sometimes too much information can be as suspicious as too little. We kept it brief and factual, with an addendum that a full report would follow as soon as the individual concerned had been apprehended."

"Are we tapping the telephones, just in case?" April asked Lisa. The young woman nodded.

"The transponder device they secretly installed in Mister Waverly's office has been altered so that it sends a duplicate signal directly here to us. We will be able to overhear any conversation made through it, and also trace easily the phone making the call. A team out of sight on Long Island is also awaiting our signal to rush the house. We're all set."

The crew sat in silence, listening the to various bugging devices that had been placed around headquarters, and watching carefully all the camera footage that was being fed to their monitors and recorded. It was not until two o'clock in the morning that anyone moved. A car pulled into the UNCLE garage, and parked silently beside the rear entrance into headquarters. The team in the mobile HQ watched as a figure dressed in black got out of the car and entered through the rear door. The next camera showed him at the rear desk receiving a security badge from the night girl on duty. Mark frowned.

"Anyone due to come in at this time of day?"

April shook her head.

"Sometimes the kitchen staff arrive early, but not this early as a rule."

Mark nodded.

"Well kitchen staff have the right to come in early…especially if they intend baking those lovely bread rolls…"

He turned to Sambrook.

"How come the camera was placed at the back down there, Joe? We can't see who the devil it is."

Sambrook sniffed.

"You don't want our traitor to get suspicious of all these new cameras everywhere do you? Can't put all of 'em in his line of sight, Guv…they're meant to be inconspicuous, right? That's what you said."

Mark nodded. Irritating though it was, the man was quite right. If their traitor got wind of the fact that he was being watched, this would all be for nothing. They continued their vigil, watching the camera feeds carefully.

The figure in black was wearing a black ski cap, and crept noiselessly down the corridors. Aware that in Waverly's absence, Mark and April were currently running everything, he made his way first to their office. Picking the locks on their desks was the work of a moment…and pretty soon Mark and April were watching the contents of their desks being emptied and strewn all over the place. Nothing of interest there. Next the filing cabinet…nothing.

Watching, the group waited. The document they had carefully prepared and doctored had been filed in Lisa Rogers' filing cabinet, as a document in the process of being dealt with. Would the intruder think of looking there?

Waverly's office was next, but it seemed that nothing had changed since the last time the intruder had searched it, and nothing was to be found of interest. The intruder stood in the middle of the office, looking round thoughtfully. Perhaps the stories he had heard were just baseless rumours? Occasionally it happened that way. He was certain that this particular rumour must have had more than air behind it, considering who it was that had been whispering about it. Lisa Rogers worked closely with sections one and two all the time…Lisa Rogers, of course! Perhaps it was all still in her possession! Swiftly he crept into her office and opened her desk. Nothing. Still. The filing cabinet perhaps? This would have to be the place if anywhere. This was taking too long and he would soon have to get started on his own work, or he would never be ready in time when everyone started to arrive for the day. He picked the lock on Lisa's filing cabinet and started rifling through the files.

In the trailer, the group watched anxiously. Would he find it? The file, when it appeared, glowed brightly under the ultra violet camera they had installed. They saw the intruder flicking through the contents of the folder, heard a very distinct "Damn!", then the file was hurriedly replaced and the draw closed. The glow that shone so brilliantly from the file now reflected brightly from the intruder's hands, chin, chest…and now the corner of his hat where he had touched it to pull it more securely on his head. Now he was leaving the room and the door handle glowed brightly.

"So where is he going now?" Darkly wondered aloud. "He has his information…or so he thinks. Will he warn anyone?"

They watched as the figure crept from Lisa's office, down the corridor and to their surprise, turned into the section two offices. Which office would he choose? They watched as he turned into the office which had formerly been Solo and Kuryakin's. He picked up the telephone, and dialed a number. Immediately, in the back of the lorry, the equipment buzzed into life, and they heard his every word being recorded onto their tapes.

"Hello? I need to speak to Mister Halloway please…Mister Halloway? It's number 392. You've been rumbled…yeah…UNCLE have rumbled you as the one who set up Solo and Kuryakin…no, they have no idea about me…I took care of the only person who knew anything about me….Moran, remember him? Two of our agents picked him up in Russia the other day and brought him to New York…He knew me. We crossed foils years ago. If he'd talked to anyone here it would have been all up…What?...He's the one who…well I'll tell you about it when we meet. Yeah….No, the stuff I found said that they have suspicions about one or two people at the Embassy, but didn't name Koskov himself fortunately. Looks like he's slipped through the loop; but they'll wait until they have proof before they do anything at all. They have something going down tomorrow morning that will finish things, so you might be wise to make a run for it now while you can…Yeah, normal place. Okay, see you then…no, no trouble. Bye."

The figure replaced the phone and crept from the room. Darkly and Slate stared at one another. Darkly's mouth tweaked.

"Well, he's condemned himself out of his own lips. 392 sounds like a regular THRUSH member. Did you recognize his voice?"

None of them had, although they all agreed that he sounded familiar. Mark opened his communicator.

"Harry? The bomb has been dropped. Jackson can show you the secret ways into the house, and where to put your guards to stop anyone escaping. It's a go. Repeat, it's a GO!"

"Yes, sir. Go!" they heard from Harry Martin before he cut transmission, and they turned their attention back to the cameras. Harry Martin had a large force of twenty agents, plus Jackson who knew the layout of the THRUSH house well. That side of the operation could safely be left to them. Now to complete the trap for their traitor. Who was he?

Darkly frowned as he tried vainly to make out more features of their quarry in the darkness.

"I still can't work out who it is. If only I remembered where I know that voice from. He received a badge easily enough so he must be a regular member of staff…perhaps he will return home until his duty shift is due to begin proper…"

To their surprise though, instead of making for the parking lot, he started to make his way downstairs. Mark and April stared at each other as they watched their traitor enter the commissary, leaving glowing fingerprints all over the door handle and fingerplate; walk through to the kitchen and remove a key from his pocket. A moment later the lights came on in the kitchen. The UNCLE cook was starting to prepare for the day.

The group in the trailer stared at one another. Eventually, Lisa burst out;

"Cookie? He's been here ages! He was here when Napoleon Solo first came as a very young and green sixteen-year-old! Why would he…?"

"What's the first move, Guv?" Darkly asked, looking from Mark to his partner and back again. "Do we confront him straight away?"

Mark shook his head.

"He thinks he's scot free, so he's not panicking. We would be better to wait until the day crew are all here eating breakfast. That way if something erupts, we'll have many strong hands to back us up."

April looked at her partner.

"You realise it means that it was Cookie who was guilty of passing on information to THRUSH about Napoleon and Illya's assignments, that ultimately led to their…"

"How would he find out things though?" Foster asked, shocked. "He works in the kitchens for crying out loud."

April shrugged.

"Not difficult, John. He can overhear normal conversations of all of us while we're waiting to be served; also, what's to stop the man bugging the commissary? He could place micro-bugs beneath every table if he wanted. We would never know because we do tend to trust our own."

John Foster nodded.

"And we've just seen he's not above doing a bit of snooping either."

"So for now guys, we wait." Mark declared with finality. "We leave here and return to headquarters as though it is a normal day. April, do you have the UV scanner?"

April nodded.

"Heather, you and I will start at Waverly's office, and play the scene as though we have just picked up this scanner as a lark. When we find a trail, we are amused and intrigued and we follow the trail until it leads us down to the commissary…we can let the evidence lead us to Cookie. Mark, you and the guys will all be in the commissary already and waiting?"

Mark nodded. "And watching carefully. Foster, I want you to station yourself outside the kitchen door…the door where the supplies are delivered. Wait until you receive the word, and then stand guard and stop anyone from leaving."

"Anyone?"

"Anyone."

John Foster nodded firmly.

"Gotcha, Guv."

April gestured towards the partition wall behind the bank of computers.

"We'd best get ourselves changed. If we all turn up this morning dressed exactly the same as yesterday, it might look rather odd."

Most of those present returned home to make the most out of whatever was left of the night. Mark and April, however, repaired to Waverly's office and snuggled down at each end of the large sofa to nap where they would be available when news from Martin and Jackson came in.

They were awakened by a call on Mark's communicator just under an hour later.

"Mister Slate? Operation completed sir. We rushed the place. They had half a dozen science boffins locked up in the basement at various stages of brain-washing; they are now on their way to our rehabilitation facility. Their labs and equipment all went up in smoke, sir, along with most of the building. It was a young woman who did that, determined that no one would find any evidence to lock her up. We have in custody nine males and two females; one of them rather feeble and elderly whom was just acting as cook and cleaner for the household. We have most of them on their way to our UNCLE prison in Iceland, except for three of them."

"Who are?"

"The young woman Olivia Del Paglio and her father Antonio, and the owner of the building, Sidney Halloway."

"Well done Harry. Take as many section three man as you need and put the two Del Paglios in separate isolated cells. Make sure we cannot get a repeat of what happened to Moran. Have Halloway taken down to interrogation. I want to see his interrogation for myself."

"Yes sir."

Mark glanced at April.

"Fancy taking on his niece? See what you can get from her? Considering she has been seeing a lot of our young friend Emma, you may be able to use that somehow."

April nodded.

"It might be that they are genuine friends."

"Maybe so."

Mark took a look at April's tired face and smiled at her.

"You look beat, partner. Why not go to our office and take a nap in private, then deal with the interrogation once we've dealt with our traitor."

April nodded.

"Thanks, Mark. See you presently."

A few hours later, April arrived in Lisa's office; conscious of the likely presence of illegal bugs, she began her role immediately. Lisa was ready and waiting.

"Hey, Lisa, I picked this thing up for my partner this morning. It's pretty neat."

"What is it? Looks like a Geiger counter if anything."

"It shines ultraviolet light…your white blouse will come out looking very mauve….see? Makes people look pretty weird too."

"What does your partner need it for?"

April shook her head and made her voice sound sad.

"He doesn't now. It was supposed to be a present for Illya. Illya wanted one for some experiment or other he was working on at home, but now…"

"I still can't believe he's gone!" Lisa remarked, genuinely sad. "Or Napoleon." For a moment, she looked like she was about to weep, and she made a concerted effort to smile.

"What was Illya doing that required an ultraviolet light?"

"Come with me and I'll show you."

The two women took off on their pre-arranged tour of headquarters, flashing their light ahead of them. When they spotted a glowing splodge on the wall outside Waverly's office, they laughed delightedly and started to follow the trail of bright spots along the corridors. A doorknob here, a wall there…then suddenly they were outside the commissary door.

"What is causing all these splodges?" Lisa asked for the benefit of any listening device that might have been within earshot.

"Illya was working on some new security device. Perhaps he had some on his hands the last time he came down here…"

"That was a while ago…he's been…he's been dead for a few days…"

"Well, apparently it can last that long. I remember him telling me that it's not easy to get off. We've started painting the stuff on some of the official documentation too, just as a way to test out how good this stuff really is. It's great, because you can't see anything is there without the light. Hey, it's definitely inside the commissary…come on Lisa, let's see where this goes."

They opened the door to the commissary and played the device around the room. April brought it to rest upon the door leading to the kitchens. She and Lisa stared at each other. They went inside. Unnoticed, Mark and Sam got up and followed them, whilst the others positioned themselves strategically around the room. Inside the kitchen, the staff were staring at April in surprise, none of them very happy.

"What's going on? You're not supposed to be in here, especially without the proper protective clothing."

April ignored them and played her ultraviolet lamp around the room. The bright, reflective substance they had painted on the fake file was everywhere. It was also on the taps, where Cookie was standing now, washing his hands with a scrubbing brush.

April walked over to him and played her lamp over his hands. They shone brightly. Everything he had touched was shining brightly. His hat, his overall, his apron, the oven doors…

"Cookie, why are you scrubbing your hands?"

"I work in a kitchen Miss Dancer. That is par for the course. I wash my hands."

"With a scrubbing brush?"

"Cleaner the better." He quipped. Mark took the brush off him and held it up.

"Do you always scrub your hands with the floor brush, Cookie? Because if so I think I have just gone off your rolls."

"Oops!"

April shook her head at him as Sam Darkly came up from behind and grabbed him securely in a neck lock before cuffing him.

"Your days of snooping are over." She told him. "Sambrook?"

The section three man came in and held out his hands. Piled up in both hands were miniature bugs, or listening devices.

"We found one of these under every single table." He said. "Goodness only knows how long they've been there."

Cookie began to bluster.

"Look, what is this all about? I'm just trying to do my job here."

By this time, they had managed to drag him, struggling all the way, to the doorway to the commissary, where UNCLE agents from all departments were busily eating their breakfast. The scene in the kitchens however had started to attract attention, and a crowd was starting to gather. Mark looked Cookie in the eye and spoke in a voice that everyone could hear.

"We have known all along that Agents Solo and Kuryakin were betrayed by someone in this office, but getting proof was the challenge. We laid a trap for you last night."

Cookie caught on straight away and his face dropped.

"So those rumours…"

"Were planted…yes. The file you looked at was indeed painted over by a new substance that Illya was in the middle of testing when he was killed. He had some still left over in his apartment." Mark confirmed. "We have video footage of you sneaking in early this morning and reading it. Your frantically trying to remove the stuff from your hands when you heard about the security paint through your secret bugs was the clincher. You left your incriminating evidence behind you wherever you went." Mark glanced around the room at the myriad faces growing angry and resentful. His eyes rested on Sambrook and his partner, whom had just entered the room from outside standing waiting quietly nearby.

"You can take him down now. Give the details to interrogation and record everything."

Sambrook nodded.

"Yes sir."

He and his partner grabbed Cookie, aka Alan Jakeman and marched off with him. The agents around were muttering angrily.

"Guv, Solo and Kuryakin were murdered? They were set up to be murdered…by him!?" Someone in the crowd piped up. Mark nodded.

"He passed on information…anything he found from his snooping early in the morning, or from the bugs he had hidden everywhere in here and passed it on to someone within or with contacts within THRUSH. Thrush saw to it that…well you can guess the rest. We've captured his THRUSH contact already. We'll get them to talk, never fear."

"Good luck Guv. Anything we can do."

"There is one thing. The kitchen is to be thoroughly searched for the knife that was used on Moran, and for any traces of human blood. Get Doctor Simpson down here to supervise as soon as he is finished with the body. No more meals from the kitchens until the doctor has cleared it."

"Sir." The agents scattered in all directions, getting to work. Mark and April left the room. April glanced at her partner.

"We have Cookie for the murder of Moran too. The evidence of his own mouth" She reminded him. The two left the commissary. They walked up the stairs side by side. April was saying;

"Why did Cookie murder Moran in particular? Cookie said that they had crossed foils in the past. What could that have been about? From the time I spent with Moran, he knew nothing at all. Nothing of the people or workings of THRUSH here, or anything about UNCLE anywhere. What danger could he have been to Cookie?"

"We brought Moran here in the hope that he would help flush out our mole…in the hope that the mole would reason that he must know something or we wouldn't have brought him."

April looked upset.

"It worked but not in the way we expected. The man was killed in our care, Mark. He was kind of sweet. He didn't deserve that to happen to him."

Mark squeezed her arm comfortingly.

"I know how you feel, Partner, I feel the same. Maybe we'll get more information out of Cookie himself."

"Could you slit a man's throat without getting blood on yourself?"

"Only if you took him by surprise I'd have thought, April."

"Moran wouldn't turn his back on a visitor he doesn't know… unless Cookie meant they literally knew one another as THRUSH? Moran couldn't have felt that Cookie was any kind of danger to him, or he would never have turned his back on him would he?"

"Why was Moran a danger?"

Their eyes met.

"If they did know one another as THRUSH, I don't see that Moran would have been in any hurry to give him away. That would hardly be in his best interests…"

"Unless Cookie was worried he would use him as a bargaining chip? Or perhaps he simply had other information he could have given away?" April mused. "He had other information that Cookie didn't want us to know? Perhaps Moran was familiar with the KGB contact?"

Mark sighed.

"Either way, let's hope our interrogation of our former cook will tell us something. Come on, I think we deserve a drink. The commissary is out of the question at the moment. We can snatch a quick cup of tea at that little café down the block."

April raised her eyebrows.

"Tea? No one drinks tea on this continent, Mark, haven't you learnt that yet?"

Mark grinned.

"Have you not heard of the traditional British stiff upper lip? The stereotypical Englishman who can watch the world tumble around his ears and simply raise an eyebrow and say `By Jove!'? Where do you think all of that comes from? A good, strong mug of tea every morning."

"Oh very well, I'll have tea…but I'll take mine with ice."

Mark rolled his eyes.

"You Americans haven't lived until you can learn to appreciate the value of a good mug of hot tea."

April laughed and grabbed Mark's arm.

"Well I'm happy to learn about your tea if you let me teach you later about a decent cup of American Coffee."

"We drink coffee in England too."

"By the way you English swear by your tea, you clearly have never had a proper cup of coffee. Come on partner, we can't be long. We have some interrogations to conduct."

The two hurried away.


	24. Illya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya falls seriously ill.

Illya stayed in the same position for so long, that Napoleon began to think his partner had fallen asleep.

They were manacled to the floor. The manacles held them tightly around their wrists and ankles, connected together by chains and attached to iron ringbolts on the floor. They had enough chain to stand or to sit. They had sufficient slack in their chains to use the hole in the floor if they needed to relieve themselves, but not nearly enough to reach either the door or the walls.

Napoleon was closely concerned about Illya. This was clearly tough for the blond Russian. Idly, trying to focus his mind on something other than their incarceration and his worry over his friend, Napoleon considered the little he knew of Illya's heritage. That was little enough. Clearly he had grown up in Kyiv, in Ukraine, but he always called Illya a clever Russian. Did that make him as ignorant as many in the western world who seemed to consider that everyone and anyone this side of the, so called, iron curtain must be Russian? Forgetting that the Soviet Union was made up of several member states, of which Russia was only one. Ukraine was another. Napoleon had an idea that his partner's past was more complex than simply having been born and raised in a poor corner of Kyiv, Illya's father had been Ukrainian for sure, but Napoleon recalled Illya once telling Marion that his mother had been Russian. So was Illya truly Russian or Ukrainian? Was he born in Kyiv, or elsewhere? Napoleon recalled their visit to the elderly man, Illya's uncle Dimitri... also known as the original Boris Popov. Uncle Dimitri had made a throwaway comment about Illya owning the entire row of houses. Hadn't their host Kossov made a comment earlier about Illya being the sole heir of the former Count Dorokhov? What was that all about? Illya had said nothing to confirm or deny anything. Napoleon remembered Uncle Dimitri had been silenced by a warning glance from Illya, but not a word had been said aloud. Clearly there was more to Illya's background than he led one to believe.

He knew there would be no point in asking his friend any personal questions on the subject. Illya just was not comfortable talking about himself at all, never mind is mysterious past. Whatever the answer might be, looking at him now, the young blond looked as though he was about at the end of his rope.

"Are you awake Illya?" he called softly. At first, there was no response, then eventually Illya lifted his head. His face was red, his eyes slightly bloodshot, and he seemed to be breathing heavily.

"I am awake."

Napoleon resisted the urge to ask if his partner was all right. Clearly he was not. His eyes were dry. They were bloodshot, but not puffy or red-rimmed, so he hadn't been weeping, but still he looked awful. Apart from the occasional cold, Illya was a singularly healthy individual who never got sick. He really hoped Illya was not going to be sick now of all times. He focused his attention on the most urgent problem.

"We need to escape this place." He said, eyeing his partner hopefully. "Any ideas?"

Illya shrugged.

"Escape is not important. Katiya is important. We are not."

"You realise what THRUSH will do to us when they learn we are here?"

Illya smiled faintly.

"They will do nothing. Kir Yuriyev will tell them nothing about us. Eventually he will let us go himself."

Napoleon looked very disbelieving.

"Really? And you know this because…?"

Illya sighed.

"Napoleon, you know that my people are a passionate people…"

Napoleon nodded respectfully.

"I know that." He affirmed quietly. Illya smiled slightly.

"Well we are most passionate about our families. Do you realise how many different words there are in the Russian language for family members? Every single family relationship you can imagine… they all have their own phrase in Russian. Family and family relationships are the most important things in life to us, Napoleon. There are always exceptions I suppose…like Mikhail…when someone loses sight of what is important in pursuit of some other goal…but Kir Yuriyev, regardless of his other affiliations, he is a true Soviet. He cares about his family. He loves Katarina…more than anything else in his world. He will do the right thing for her, for himself and for me…because regardless of our political or social views, we are family."

"You're certain about that? If you're right, Illya, for us to escape would insult him, and if you are wrong, it would be… suicide."

Illya shrugged

"I'm not wrong, my friend. You will see."

He screwed up his eyes.

"I'm sorry Napoleon, the light is hurting my eyes. It's beginning to give me a headache."

He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead and returned to his former position, wrapping his arms around his knees and resting his head in the crook of his elbow. Watching him, Napoleon frowned, and glancing up at the single bare bulb that afforded rather dim lighting for this dingy cell, his concern for his friend and partner increased tenfold.

MFU MFU MFU

Kossov went upstairs, as had become his habit, to say goodnight to his granddaughter and tuck her in for the night. He sang her his favourite lullaby, the one his own mother had once sung to him when he was little. She smiled and huddled down. He kissed her forehead tenderly, and as he was about to move away, she tugged at his sleeve.

"Deda, is that other man coming to say goodnight to me too?"

"What other man kitten?"

"The man who looks just like my papa."

"No, he won't be up to say goodnight to you. He's a bad man."

That puzzled the child and she wrinkled her forehead.

"But he can't be bad, Deda. He loves me. You told me that bad people hurt other people. He wouldn't."

Kossov looked at the child.

"Why do you think that? If he is not your papa, he can't possibly love you can he?"

"I don't know why he loves me deda, but he does. I saw it in his eyes, on his face…and the way he hugged me. It was like…"

She paused as though trying to find the right words. Kossov waited, knowing from experience that his intelligent granddaughter knew what she was trying to say. She frowned, then inspiration hit.

"Deda, remember when I lost my teddy? I couldn't find it and I cried?"

Kossov remembered very well. The teddy had been left behind one time, and it had taken the child's mother three days to find it. He remembered how the little girl had hugged her teddy hard when she got it back, hugging it as though she were never going to let it go ever again. Katiya smiled at her deda.

"Well that's how he hugged me, deda. It was like I was his teddy bear, and he had found me when I was lost for a long time. It felt like he didn't want to let me go."

Kossov hugged her.

"I love you Katiya. You are very clever, you know that? I didn't see that about him. I was angry at him because he was pretending to be your papa. That was wrong."

"Maybe he wanted me to be happy. Deda, why does he love me? Why does he look like papa when he isn't?"

"Did your mama or papa ever tell you anything about when they were very little?"

The little girl shook her head.

"Not much."

"Well, when your papa was little, he had other children to play with. Not like you or your mama. Your Papa had three sisters and he also had a younger brother called Illya. Your Papa and his brother Illya always looked like each other. Always. That man who came today is your papa's younger brother Illya. He is your Uncle, my child."

The little girl thought about that. Finally, she said;

"Will Uncle Illya come riding with me and Nina tomorrow deda?"

The unexpectedness of the question brought a tear to the old man's eye and he let out a laugh.

"Oh my darling child. We'll see shall we? If he is still here, we'll see. Now don't you worry about it now. You go to sleep and I'll see you in the morning."

Obediently, the little girl closed her eyes, happy in the fond belief that everything would be all right in the morning.

Kossov spent his night wide awake, pacing up and down the garden, his mind racing, wondering what his next step should be, and would he be able to muster up the courage to take it?

It was mid-morning the following day before Kossov made up his mind what he was going to do, and he made his way downstairs to the cellars. When he arrived at the cell, he unlocked the door and was greeted by the erstwhile speechless man Boris frantic with worry for his friend.

"You have to help him…he's sick! Please, help him!"

Kossov knelt by Illya's side and touched his forehead gently. The younger man was burning up, a raging fever consuming him from within. His clothing was drenched with sweat, his hair wet and clinging to his forehead. Kossov knelt and listened carefully to the young man's chest. The heavy, laboured, wheezing and crackling he heard made Kossov close his eyes for a moment.

"This is really serious." He paused, then looked up at Napoleon.

"Who are you?"

For answer, Napoleon removed his half-mask with obvious relief.

"I'm Illya's partner. We work together."

"You're the supposedly dead Napoleon Solo?"

"Yes."

"I've seen pictures of you, but you seem to have put on a little weight."

"Get these chains off me and I can guarantee I'll lose weight pretty dramatically. You have to help Illya! Please!"

The last was definitely an appeal from the heart. Kossov was already busily unlocking the chains that bound Illya, then he tossed the keys to Napoleon and picked Illya up from the floor.

"Unlock yourself, and follow me. First floor, third door on the left."

"Thank you."

Kossov was gone. Solo noted with some surprise that the old man actually appeared to be running. He unlocked himself as quickly as he could and took off at a run himself.

Napoleon arrived at the third door on the left, almost skidding to a halt, and found that it was a fully functioning sickroom, with more equipment and supplies than he would have expected to see in this part of the world. Kossov had removed his jacket and donned a white lab coat. He glanced up as Napoleon came in.

"No doctors or nurses available, I'm afraid all you have is me."

"No nearby hospital? Where did you get all of this stuff?"

Kossov looked up briefly.

"There is a hospital, but it is owned and run by THRUSH. Illya's life will be worth nothing if we take him there. As for this equipment, it was uh…intercepted en route to somewhere or other."

Napoleon looked at him.

"Illya needs medical help urgently."

"He's getting it right now."

"No, I mean…forget it. Look, Moscow is just fifteen minutes away in your chopper. Hospitals there…our local office is there. They could take good care of…"

Kossov interrupted with a scornful shout.

"U.N.C.L.E? You really think I am going to voluntarily walk into an UNCLE base? I'll turn you both over to THRUSH first."

"Well whatever you do decide quickly, because Illya's burning up."

Kossov opened the door of the chilled cupboard and brought out a large bag of ice. He quickly stripped the unconscious man down to his bare chest, and stopped, paralyzed for a moment at the sight of Illya's numerous scars. He placed the ice on Illya's chest and glanced up at Napoleon.

"THRUSH?"

Napoleon nodded bitterly.

"Who else?"

Napoleon watched as Kossov worked seemingly expertly on the sick man, connecting him to a heart monitor and an oxygen mask. The ice was separated into smaller packs and packed closely around him on the bed. Kossov saw Napoleon's worried face. Napoleon met his eyes.

"Pneumonia?" It was a statement rather than a question. Kossov nodded.

"I've had a lot of experience treating injuries and sicknesses on the battlefield. I may not be a doctor, but I know what needs to be done. No medicine, but if we sit up with him around the clock, we can keep him alive. I'll show you what to do if he needs help."

Out of options, and with Kossov holding all the cards, all Napoleon could do was nod.

MFU MFU MFU

Katiya had looked everywhere for her grandfather, but he seemed to have disappeared. Neither could she find the strange blond man who looked so like papa. Uncle Illya, deda had told her. She didn't know why Uncle Illya had come instead of papa, but she could guess. Papa had always been very protective of her, but he had never had very much time for her himself, or for mama for that matter. Mama had told her that although they had sometimes come for a visit, they had never come to live with deda before because papa wouldn't allow it. Since mama was dead and she was here now, she could only guess that papa must be dead too, or he would certainly have turned up, shouting and ranting in that noisy, scary way of his.

Uncle Illya, when he and his friend came yesterday had come in so quietly and calmly. He had spoken quietly and had even wept real tears when he saw her. He only looked like papa. He didn't act like papa at all. Papa was scary, and Katiya had never liked it when he came home because he had been loud and made mama cry. Uncle Illya was quiet and he showed that he cared about her by the way he had hugged her so tightly and had had to be almost pulled away from her. She liked Uncle Illya. She really wished that he was her papa. She would like that; she knew she would. She loved dedushka too, and she knew he loved her very much indeed. He would not want her to go away with this new uncle. She wasn't sure she would want to leave deda anyway. She hoped they would not ask her to make a choice. Perhaps Uncle Illya would stay?

Quite by chance, she wandered up the stairs and looked into all the rooms on the first floor. She opened the door of the sick room and wandered inside lightheartedly and stopped dead in shock.

Papa…no, Uncle Illya was laying on a white bed, stripped down to his underwear it looked like, and covered with just a thin white sheet. He had round things stuck on his chest and connected to a machine beside him that made noises in time with his heart beat… which scared Katiya. Surely his heart should be beating faster than that? That was so slow it frightened her and made her want to cry. He was dripping wet, and had a mask over his face, helping him to breathe. She ran over to him, startling the two men beside the bed. She reached out a hand and stroked Illya's face, pushing his hair back out of his eyes. She saw the numerous scars that covered Illya's bare torso, and knew without a doubt that this was not her papa. Her papa had not had scars like that.

"Deda, what happened to do that to his front?" She asked her grandfather. Kossov realized the child was referring to the young man's scars and blinked, thinking quickly. Napoleon watched him. Kossov kissed her nose and replied to her in Russian, for Napoleon's benefit.

"Don't worry kitten. They don't hurt him anymore."

The child glanced briefly at the dark haired man and switched to Russian with barely a thought.

"But what did that to him?"

"Some…uh…some enemies hurt him, but he managed to get away."

"Enemies? What's enemies deda?"

This time the pause was even longer. Finally, her deda replied,

"Um…bad people Kitten. Some bad people wanted something he did not want to give, and they did that to him to try and make him."

"He's brave isn't he deda? What's wrong with him? Why is he so hot?"

"He's sick kitten. Really, really sick. We need to take care of him, try and help him get well again."

"Please let me help deda."

"Of course. You can talk to him. That might help him to wake up."

The little girl bent and planted a soft kiss on Illya's hot and feverish forehead, and continued to stroke his head gently, whispering in his ear all the while;

"Papa Illya…Papa Illya… Papa Illya please get well."

Kossov looked over her head at Napoleon and saw a tear fall unchecked. He shook his head. The boy was so sick…so very sick, and it had happened so quickly. Solo had explained that Illya was susceptible to catching colds, but even so…he had to do something. Anything. There had to be something to give him. Antibiotics to fight the infection at the very least. If he developed some sort of sepsis, then he would have no chance. He had finally decided what he needed to do, but now…?

He got up and went to the window. The sky had darkened and thick, black clouds sat overhead like a great, black lid. Huge globs of rain came down in a torrential downpour, followed by thunder and lightning. Katiya ignored the noise outside, totally focused on stroking and speaking to her sick uncle. Kossov turned back to Solo.

"Listen, Mister Solo, taking the chopper out is out of the question at the moment, but we can't wait any longer to try and get medication for our young friend here. It would be far too dangerous. I am going to take the jeep and drive out to the THRUSH hospital to try and get what we need. It's a long shot, and they're likely to be suspicious, but Illya is desperately in need of medicine if he is to have any chance of recovery. I am going to ask you a very big favour. I will try not to be very long. I need you to swear on the life of your boss, Alexander Waverly, that you will do everything in your power to keep my granddaughter safe until I return?"

Staring, Solo nodded.

"I swear I will take good care of her."

The little girl gazed up at him, still gently stroking Illya's forehead. Kossov took one look at them, then turned and hurried away.

Napoleon kept cold compresses pressed around his partner's body in an effort to lower his temperature, kept the oxygen flowing and supported his partner when he suddenly erupted into a volley of violent coughing which then led to vomiting. To his amazement, the little girl beside him never moved from her place. She showed no signs of shock or revulsion, but simply moved out of the way when she needed to, then once her uncle was settled again, she returned to stroking his forehead and softly talking to him. She really was, as Dimitry Kuryakin had said, a `delightful' child.

Napoleon and Katiya sat side by side, each doing their best to help the blond man on the bed the best way they knew how. Napoleon smiled at her, thinking of his nephew and nieces back home. A cloud covered his features for a moment when he recalled that they all currently believed that he was dead. Would they ever forgive him, when he got home?

"Do you talk my language?" the child asked him in Ukrainian. Napoleon looked blank and shrugged. She grinned. Obviously not.

"Do you speak Russian then?" she asked, switched easily to Russian.

"Yes, I understand you, now. How's my Russian?"

"You're not very good at it. You sound awful."

Napoleon nodded.

"So everyone keeps telling me. How old are you, Katiya?"

"I'm six."

"How do you know what to do? Many people older than you would be afraid to see someone sick like Illya."

The little girl shrugged.

"My mama got sick, and babushka was there but she was weak. She told me what to do to help mama and I did it."

"You are very brave, Katiya."

"Why did Papa Illya get sick?"

"I don't know. Why do you call him Papa Illya? You know he is not really your papa don't you?"

She nodded her head, blond waves bouncing.

"I know, but he wants to be, and I think I would like it."

"You would miss dedushka if you went to live with Papa Illya."

"Yes I know, and deda loved me first."

Napoleon soaked a cloth in the cold water and mopped his friend's face with it again. He tried to ignore the heat rising off him in almost palpable waves.

"Come on Illya, snap out of this! We have work to do. Come on my friend, fight your way back."

Illya's head moved on the pillow and his lips parted. Napoleon removed his friend's mask and supported his head and helped him take a sip of water. Illya's eyes opened.

"Hey, welcome back my friend."

Illya tried to speak, but his voice was very hoarse.

"In bed again?"

"How long were you feeling bad Illya? I wish you'd told me."

"I..I was not…I mean I had things on my mind I suppose I didn't notice any…" he broke off in a violent paroxysm of coughing and vomiting which left him exhausted. He began to shiver violently, and Napoleon whispered to Katiya.

"Can you fetch an extra blanket? Not too thick, though."

She nodded and hurried away. She returned with an enormous blanket that trailed several feet behind her. Napoleon thanked her gravely and draped it over his friend's body.

Napoleon carefully monitored Illya's breathing and heart rate. It did not worsen over the next few hours, but did not improve either. He wondered what had happened to their host? Was he betraying them to THRUSH after all? When Kossov finally returned after four very long and worrying hours, he was empty handed.

Kossov examined the patient thoroughly, and noticing that his shivers were calming down, he removed the extra blanket and gave his granddaughter the job of placing cold compresses on the sick man's face and neck. The child nodded, happy to be able to do something more to help, and as she set to work, Kossov led Napoleon out of the room.

"Mister Solo? We have a problem." He said.

Napoleon stared at Kossov as the man explained. He had really raised all sorts of hell trying to get the medicine he needed for Illya, but to no avail. There simply was none available. He had been so insistent that THRUSH had started to enquire as to his reasons for needing it. When he told them, quite reasonably, that his son-in-law Mikhail had arrived at his home to visit the child, but had then fallen seriously ill, they had immediately insisted on taking care of Mikhail themselves at their facility at THRUSH Central.

"They'll be here before midnight tonight."

The man looked desperate.

"Illya was right in what he said, Mister Solo. THRUSH will not allow me to gracefully retire to take care of my granddaughter. They'll keep using me until I'm no use any more and then they'll kill me. Meanwhile they'll assign someone to care for Katiya and turn her into a good little THRUSH. What can I do now? I just want to care for my daughter's beautiful little girl. Is it too much to ask?"

"Are you asking for my help, General Kossov?" Napoleon asked, directly. Kossov looked him in the eye.

"For Katiya's sake, yes."

"You won't consider giving the child to Illya and continuing your own career in THRUSH?"

"She's not a toy to play with!" he exclaimed angrily. "She's been through enough already the poor child. She's been pushed and pulled from pillar to post, this way and that, and she deserves a stable home where she can grow up safely. Can Illya offer her that? Will he truly be happy working in some office or lab somewhere? I don't doubt that he loves her…and she's starting to think she loves him…to her he's the ideal hero. He's raced across continents to find her, he's kind and caring and yet he looks so familiar to her. He is easy for her to love. But she needs more than just a heroic father figure, and you know it."

Napoleon held up his hands.

"It's all right, Kossov. I was just wondering how much you are willing to give up for her. UNCLE can help you, but you would have to disappear completely. Hide, perhaps a complete change of identity for both of you. You would lose all of this."

Solo gestured around him at the house and its grounds. Kossov nodded.

"In exchange for?"

"A debriefing. We have a number of questions for you. Answer them honestly and we won't ask you anything that would put you on any priority hit list. In exchange we give you a change of identity and UNCLE protection for as long as you need it. But there's a catch."

Kossov nodded.

"I know. Illya must agree."

"Yes."

Kossov half smiled.

"I agree that is fair. Will Illya be allowed to know where we are? To visit us?"

"No. Never. He would be followed by anyone seeking to find you."

"I see, So, to the man who has lost almost everything, the one thing he does still have is yet to be snatched away from him. May I make a recommendation?"

"Of course."

"You care about him?"

"Yes. He's my closest friend."

"In that case, Napoleon Solo, wait until he is out of danger before you tell him any of this. There is a possibility that a man faced with the loss of the only thing he has left to live for may decide to…"

"Throw in the towel?" Napoleon finished, grimly. Kossov nodded. Napoleon heaved a heavy sigh, and fished inside his clothing for his communicator. To his annoyance he remembered too late that he and Illya had come out on this trip without their communicators. The gadgetry was too obviously UNCLE, and their intentions had been to operate under the radar and be non-threatening if apprehended by anyone. Kossov was watching him curiously.

"A problem?"

"Hmm, yes." Napoleon replied. "Do you have a telephone?"


	25. The Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With THRUSH closing in, they have to find a way to escape. Napoleon offers to draw them off...but can Kossov really be trusted with his sick partner?

Katiya crouched down in the back of the jeep, as her grandfather instructed her. Beside her, stretched across the back seat was Uncle Illya. Sweat was pouring from his face, and he was beginning to toss his head from side to side.

"Keep very quiet." Kossov told her in a low voice. "You can talk to your uncle if you whisper very quietly. Can you do that?"

Katiya nodded.

"What if he starts to cough again? He makes a lot of noise then."

"Let's hope he doesn't until we are on our way. Do you remember what to do if he does?"

"Make sure he doesn't choke, and get out of the way if he starts to be sick."

Kossov smiled and tousled her hair.

"You're a brave girl. Come on then, we have to wait here very quietly until Uncle Illya's friend leaves with the helicopter. The people who want to find us will follow the helicopter. When they are gone, we can leave."

"Where are we going, deda?"

"To some good people who will take care of us and help your uncle to get well. Sssh now."

Katiya sat huddled on the floor at the back of the jeep, gently stroking the sick man's hair and forehead. She didn't want to tell deda, because he had other things to worry about, but she was frightened. She remembered when mama had got sick, and she had looked just like this…after a couple of days the neighbours had dug a hole and put her in the ground. Mama had always been healthy, and she had looked stronger than this new uncle. That was what had stopped her in her tracks yesterday when she thought papa had come for her. Papa had looked slightly thinner than before, and had less colour in his cheeks. It had made her look more closely, and that was when she had realized that this wasn't papa at all. She liked Uncle Illya more than papa. He cared about her more than papa ever had, and he had come a long way to find her. She was scared of losing him as she had lost mama. She began to whisper softly.

"Please get well Uncle Illya, please. I don't want you to die."

Napoleon felt the machine beneath him bucking violently. He was fighting hard to keep control as he was buffeted by very strong gales. The problem was he had to make a song and dance about the lift-off, because he had to make sure he was noticed by any THRUSH- birds that might be in the area. He had to draw their attention…if they were out. This was a very risky move, both taking out the helicopter in this weather, and trusting his partner to that fellow Kossov. Napoleon still had serious reservations about the man but; and here was the rub; Illya trusted him. Napoleon knew without a doubt that Illya would have trusted Kossov completely, and Napoleon trusted Illya's judgment. How many times had his partner been proven right when they had disagreed over someone's trustworthiness? He just hoped that on this one Illya had been thinking with his head as well as with his heart. His life may well now depend upon it.

He made a point of flying around in a circle by way of getting his bearings, determined that he was noticed. The zing! of a bullet whizzing past the cabin gave him his answer. He could see very little down there through all the rain and confusion, but someone had surely seen him. He set his course and flew a straight line, feeling the bucking ease a little under him. The gunfire from below continued.

Kossov watched from his hiding place as the chopper made a circuit of the area, and then headed out across country. He heard the sounds of gunshots, and revving engines and his THRUSH visitors took off after the chopper. He shook his head. He hoped he was doing right in trusting that fellow Solo. He had burned his bridges now, that was certain. Illya Kuryakin was family. Distant family, but still family. Trusting him was a given. All he had to go on was that Illya and this fellow Napoleon were friends as well as work partners. If Illya trusted Solo, that would have to be good enough. Solo was doing a good enough job luring those boys away anyway. He was leading them along a road that would take them miles away from Moscow. The idea of course was to keep up this charade until Kossov had had time to get to Moscow and UNCLE, and then about face and fly back to Moscow himself before he ran out of fuel. He wondered if THRUSH had left anyone behind here? Even as he thought those words, a voice behind him made him freeze.

"Stay right where you are, General."

Kossov turned around and drew himself up to his full height. He looked down his nose at the pimply youth brandishing a gun at him.

"And you are?"

"THRUSH. You are wanted at THRUSH Central, General, for treason against the organization."

"Treason? Have you taken leave of your senses?"

"Central wanted your son-in-law Mikhail Kuryakin under control where he can be nursed back to health and then his abilities utilized to our best advantage. Now you have let him escape in your helicopter."

"What is your name? You are not Russian are you? You're not even Soviet. Your accent is atrocious."

"I..er…I am Jacques Lemaire from Lyons."

"French. I thought so. And you clearly have never held a gun before today. Look at you, can't even remember to remove the safety catch!"

The young man, taken off guard, glanced down at his weapon and at that moment Kossov lashed out with his right fist and caught Lemaire on the left temple. He crumpled to the floor. In a moment, Kossov had tied him up, gagged him and heaved him into the front of the jeep, tying him to the passenger seat to prevent him trying to cause trouble.

"Okay baby, time for us to be off. Keep down now."

The storm was still raging overhead, rain falling in torrents and in places the roads were becoming awash with runoff rainwater. The wind howled around them, trying to push them off the road and Kossov had to concentrate to keep the jeep driving straight. Lightning flashed around them, making a dazzling display that almost cost them their lives when a tree was struck by lightning just as they passed it. It fell with a crash across the road, missing the back of the jeep by less than a couple of feet. Kossov noticed his prisoner visibly shaking. He repressed a smile, and drove on, towards Moscow.

Napoleon Solo glanced nervously at his fuel gauge. It had been full when he took off, but now it was nearly empty. Those darned THRUSHes must have hit the fuel line or punctured the tank or something. He was losing fuel like water over a waterfall. No way would he make it back to Moscow now. He hoped that he had succeeded in drawing THRUSH away from the house so that Kossov could escape and save Illya and Katiya. That was all that really mattered now. He would have to find somewhere to ditch the helicopter where it would not be found by THRUSH again. Something the size of a chopper was hard to hide properly, and if they found it, they'd find him. Solo did not want to be caught by THRUSH right now…not with Illya so sick, maybe dying. How to bring the bird down and make it disappear completely? As he started his descent, Napoleon saw the answer to his dilemma…

 

Wilhelm Tarasov stared at his CEA in surprise.

"He says what?"

Agent Molovitski nodded seriously.

"He says he is Kir Yuriyev Kossov, formerly a General in THRUSH. He offers himself and his assistance to UNCLE, and says he has agent Kuryakin with him, dying of pneumonia, and that agent Solo is somewhere out there in a chopper being chased by THRUSH."

"You and Polokofiev go and fetch them here. I'll get on to tracking, see if they have any record of a helicopter anywhere within range."

Molovitski ran through the corridors of headquarters, gathered up his partner and no sooner had Polokofiev slammed his car door shut than Molovitski was roaring off at a wheel spinning speed.

They finally found an empty jeep beside the road near a dilapidated old row of tenements. Some careful searching finally came up with two wary faces from behind the broken front door of the furthest tenement building, half falling down; the door hanging forlornly from a single hinge.

"General?" Molovitski enquired, standing still and watching his quarry carefully. The man emerged fully from cover; usually a man with presence and authority, wearing a flamboyant uniform with gold frogging and medals on his chest, he now seemed to be nothing more than a nervous old man. Kossov frowned slightly.

"Who are you looking for? We have nothing worth stealing."

"I was told you have lost your uncle Solo. We're here to help you."

The old man looked relieved.

"I am Kossov, and this is my granddaughter Katarina. My son-in-law Illya is inside. You have to help him. He's burning up really bad."

The two UNCLE man exchanged glances.

"Take the general and the child to the car. I'll fetch Illya. Let's hope it's not too late to help him."

Polokofiev nodded, and Molovotski ran to the tumbledown building.

Inside it was damp and musty. It was composed of just a single room. Illya lay on a pile of old rags and torn up newspaper.

"Oh, my!" Molovitski breathed as he knelt beside the sick man. "Illya. Illya! Can you wake up?"

Illya mumbled, moving his head, and slowly he opened his eyes. He squinted painfully, and managed a half smile.

"So my partner came through. Is he all right?"

Molovitski had to lean close to hear his words. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

"It was a man called Kossov who brought you here. Come along, we have to get you into medical."

"Kossov? But where is 'Poleon?"

Molovitski looked into the pained blue eyes.

"So far Illya…we don't know. We're looking for him."

The news that his partner was missing was enough to jerk Illya into full wakefulness. His companion had to help him up, and then prop him up to prevent him collapsing again, but he was determined to walk to the car under….almost…his own power. He was still burning up with the fever, and his head was spinning. He was grateful to finally tumble into the back of the car, falling over the knees of Kossov and Katiya, where he sprawled, struggling to stay conscious.

"Did you find our prisoner?" Kossov asked suddenly.

"What prisoner?"

"A THRUSH goon who tried to arrest me. A Frenchman. I tied him up and put him in the car. When we left the car, I locked him into it. Told him someone would come back for him."

"The car was empty. We checked."

Katiya spoke up.

"No one came and got him out. We would have heard. He couldn't have run away because dedushka tied him all up."

Polokofiev glanced at his partner.

"I'll go and have another look."

He ran across the rough ground and peered once more into the car. Definitely empty. If he was still around, where could he be? He knelt down and peered beneath the car. The dirt and dust was disturbed. Looks like he had managed to get out of the car and wriggle under it but he wasn't there now. Polokofiev glanced round the terrain. If he was here, tied hand and foot and gagged as well, where would he go to hide and try to get free? The man would have had to move by making those silly little bunny hops across the open ground. Tiring on the knees. He looked back to the old rows of tenements again. He ran lightly over to the row once again and peered round the back. Here was a long row of dustbin bags, some broken open and spilling their putrid contents across the ground. At the far end, sat leaning against someone's wall was the prisoner, his hands running with blood as he tried to cut his bonds free on the jagged edge of an old tin.

Polokofiev crept up to him as silently as he could, and bellowed in his ear;

"Que faites vous?"

The Frenchman jumped and cursed as he cut his palm again on the jagged tin. Polokofiev raised an eyebrow.

"That will take you forever, and those cuts will quickly turn septic. Come on, let's get you settled in a nice, clean, comfortable cell at UNCLE headquarters shall we?"

He lifted the young man up easily and threw him over his shoulder in a fireman's lift, keeping the prisoner's hands clamped together behind him and strode back to the car where his partner was waiting. The prisoner glared as he was once again strapped into the front seat to prevent him from wriggling free a second time. Polokofiev closed the door on him and looked in through the window.

"See you back at HQ. I'll drive the General's jeep." He aimed a fish-eye stare at the prisoner.

"If you try anything I will be right behind you."

The prisoner muttered something in French and turned away. As Molovitski pulled away, Polokofiev heard the child Katarina declare in a loud voice;

"Deda, he said something rude!"

Polokofiev did not hear the reply as the car roared away. He grinned and began to follow, driving the jeep.

In headquarters, the prisoner was led down to the cells, whilst Illya, once again only half conscious was whisked quickly down to medical. Molovitski stood in the corridor outside, waiting for the doctor's verdict, when Tarasov joined him, looking somber. Molovitski had learned to dread that look on the chief's face.

"What is it, sir?"

"Only one report of a helicopter in the air last night, seen venting a lot of smoke about thirty miles from here…"

He broke off as the door opened and both men turned to the doctor. The doctor beckoned them inside. They found Illya laid out on a bed of ice, an oxygen mask over his face helping him to breathe, and drips in his arms. He looked terribly small and frail laid out like that. The two men gulped visibly. The doctor noted their reactions and motioned for them to sit.

"This is definitely pneumonia, which I suspect started out as a mere head cold. Illya is a strong and healthy individual, his proclivity for catching colds notwithstanding. This has been caused by exposure to a virus which under normal circumstances he would have fought off successfully. On this occasion though, he already had the beginnings of a cold, and add to that a certain amount of emotional trauma made him susceptible."

"Okay, so will he be all right?"

"It's too early to say with any certainty, but I think if he was going to die, he would have done so already. Don't misunderstand me, he is still a very sick young man, but, provided there are no unexpected complications, I think you will find forty-eight hours will bring about a marked improvement in him. I understand there is a young lady somewhere, dying to come in and sit with him?"

"Yes. We left her with one of your nurses down the hall."

"Tell her she can come and sit with him if she promises to be gentle and quiet."

"Thank you doctor."

The two men left the room, and paused outside the door.

"Sir, what were you about to tell me about tracking finding a helicopter out last night?"

Tarasov nodded, his smile vanishing rapidly.

"Only one helicopter was out last night during that storm, and reports have been received of it trailing thick black smoke. The word is, it crashed."

The blood drained from Molovitski's face.

"Crashed? Was there a survivor? Has the wreckage been found and searched?"

Tarasov shook his head.

"I've just sent some teams out there…the reports are it crashed into a large lake. No sign of any surivors…they'll drag the lake of course, and teams are going down to search the countryside, but…"

He looked through the glass door at the patient lying still and white in the bed.

"How the hell do I tell him that his partner is dead?"


	26. An Interrogation with a Difference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> UNCLE need Olivia Del Paglio to betray THRUSH, and her own father. Can April persuade her?

April took a long swig at her mug of tea and screwed up her face.

"Yeuch! How can you drink that stuff? It's so…so…"

Words failed her. Mark raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"So…?"

"Sweet and cloying!"

Mark laughed.

"Don't blame that on the tea luv. That was you insisting on having your tea made wholly with milk and putting three spoons of sugar in it. No one in Britain drinks their tea that way…tea is made with hot water, not hot milk, some people put a little milk in their tea, but only a taste of it…and most people actually don't use sugar at all. Here, try mine and see if you like it the British way."

Reluctantly, April accepted his mug and took a very tentative sip. Then another. Then another. Before she knew it, the mug was empty. She grinned as she gave him back his empty mug.

"Thanks, it is much nicer that way."

"Evidently. Does this mean you are now converted?"

"Not a convert, no. Persuaded that you and Illya aren't completely daft after all in your fixation with tea. You must still be thirsty. Want me to get you another one?"

Mark shook his head.

"Yes I am, but no thanks, we've run out of time. We need to get back to headquarters and look in and see how those interviews are going."

"Do you still want me to sit in on the girl's interview?"

Mark nodded. The two got up and left the café. As they made their way down the block back toward Del Floria's, Mark remembered something.

"Did I tell you I ordered Nurse Emma to report to Doctor Simpson for testing, and to psychiatric for assessment?"

"No, you didn't. How did she take the order?"

"Bewildered. It was just before we had final proof of her old school friend being a part of THRUSH. I wanted to know if they had been hypnotizing her or anything whilst she was sequestered in there with Olivia Del Paglio. Our first stop will be to Medical…that is if Doctor Simpson is finished in the kitchens by now."

Doctor Simpson was indeed in medical, and waiting for them. He greeted them warmly, but seriously.

"The kitchen's sink contained minute traces of human blood, a few droplets on the floor of the commissary too, that had been cleaned away; but there are ways of making it show up. All samples we found have been sent down to the labs for comparison with samples of Moran's blood that I supplied. We found the knife too."

He handed over a clear plastic bag containing a long and dangerous looking knife with an extremely sharp serrated edge. It was covered in blood stains. April shrank back automatically. Simpson sighed.

"The bloodstains you can see are actually pig's blood."

"Pig's blood?"

The doctor nodded.

"Cookie in his wisdom decided out of the blue yesterday to buy a whole pig straight from the abattoir and butcher it himself. He spread pig's blood and entrails over half the floor in there and gave his kitchen staff the task of scrubbing it all clean again. There may be human blood beneath the pig's blood on this knife…but if so it will take our science team a while to find it. I thought you'd want to see it before I send it downstairs."

Mark nodded, and turned the bag round and round, examining the weapon carefully from every angle. A very dangerous object indeed in the hands of a killer.

"We'll take it down presently. Any results on the other matter?"

Simpson's sigh this time was, if anything, even deeper.

"Actually…yes."

"Yes?"

"I'm afraid we found traces in her blood of drugs…she has been imbibing a drug regularly for several weeks now…whether knowingly or unknowingly…"

"Any clue as to the identity of this drug?" April asked him quietly. Simpson nodded.

"I have seen it before…do you remember the Foxes and Hounds Affair that Solo and Kuryakin were involved with a while back? After they were captured and questioned by THRUSH, Kuryakin was full of remorse about having given everything away under influence of the drug, insisting that he should have been strong enough to resist; so on Solo's suggestion we tested it and found it was a newly developed THRUSH drug, a great deal more powerful than either of them had encountered before."

"So Emma has been repeatedly given a truth serum by THRUSH, without her knowledge? A TRUTH serum that even highly trained agents were not able to combat? What hope did she have?"

April felt sorry for the girl. Mark hardened his heart and pressed on.

"What about psychiatric? Have they finished their evaluations?"

"Yes. They found no evidence of hypnotism, but the after-effects of the truth drug over a period of time. It seems that in Emma they found a young woman who was lonely, unhappy and eager to unburden herself to someone who she thought was a friend. That made her especially suggestible."

"I wonder what she has told them?" April mused. Simpson looked at them both hard.

"What could she possibly have told anyone? She is a low grade nurse, only just qualified and still on probation. She's a good nurse, but she has no security clearance at all here at UNCLE. There are large portions of this building that her security badge will not permit her to go. She reports to me or one of my colleagues every morning, and remains in medical during her working hours."

Mark and April exchanged glances. Nurse Emma was an unfortunate innocent in all of this, but under the circumstances, she was now a security risk that they could not afford. Simpson saw their glances and his face fell.

"You're going to have her de-trained aren't you? Where will she go when she's left here?"

Mark smiled.

"Yes, she needs to be de-trained, but that doesn't mean that we just throw her out to fend for herself. There is a lovely little retirement home in Charleston, South Carolina where elderly UNCLE agents who have no family go to live out their twilight years. Known colloquially as Homeward Bound, they are in need of a live-in nurse. The duties are light but important, and…"

"…and Emma loves elderly people!" Simpson continued. "That sounds like a great idea, Mister Slate. She would be happy there I think. Elderly people like her too."

"Do they? How do you know?" April asked him, grinning slightly. Simpson twinkled at her.

"Del Floria's assistant, Sammy Warwick* was telling me about when he came down here for his first physical. He was impressed at the way she spoke to him, how she handled him and knew what he could do and what he could not do. He told me that she was a treasure. He also said that she knows how to listen to old folks."

Mark grinned.

"Sammy's a card isn't he? No, he is quite right though. Emma's a good nurse. She needs a fresh start away from New York. Would you prefer to be the one to tell her?"

"Actually, no. But I think she would prefer to hear it from me. Miss Dancer, would you mind being present?"

"Of course. Where is she right now? Does she know her friend is in custody?"

"No she doesn't. I have her working closely with the Head Nurse, Claire Somers in the treatment room today. Claire is under orders to stay with Emma all day."

"Thank you doctor. Mark and I have a few things we need to sort out, but I'll come back as soon as I am free. It will be before six this evening. I'll have Miss Rogers arrange travel plans for Emma for this weekend."

The doctor nodded and turned away, but his body language gave him away. He was not very happy. His sympathy was, understandably, very much with young nurse Emma.

Whilst Mark took the knife down to the lab to be worked on, April made her way upstairs to the interrogation suite. She selected the viewing gallery above suite two. There she found Olivia Del Paglio sitting, arms folded and her mouth pursed whilst two UNCLE interrogators, Michael Wicker and Susan Holt fired questions at her one at a time. Olivia seemed to be finding something amusing. She was saying nothing. April bit her lip. Mark wanted her to try her hand here. She wondered if the idea in her mind would work? Would it be worth a go? She smiled to herself and opened her communicator.

MFU MFU MFU

Dressed once again in her blond full-head disguise, and dressed in a smart three-piece trouser suit, looking like an executive, April twisted her long, blond hair on her head in a French pleat. Mark, whom had just joined her from reporting to the labs grinned at her.

"Go for it partner. They're waiting for you."

From the viewing gallery above, Mark watched as his partner opened the door, and ran in a couple of steps as though she had been pushed from behind. The door closed behind her. Already primed, the interrogators, Wicker and Holt leapt from their seats in apparent frustration.

"Fine, you want to be interrogated together, so be it. Makes no odds to us!" Wicker declared. "Sit yourself down Miss Sweet and make yourself comfortable. We'll get ourselves a coffee, and we'll be back in ten minutes. Don't try anything. Remember you are being watched…" Wicker pointed up to the gallery, and smirking, the two left the room. A moment later, they were beside Mark in observation. They watched, and unbeknownst to the prisoner below, listened.

April sat herself down beside Olivia who stared at her.

"So what happened to you the other night? You vanished along with security and the next thing we know is…" she broke off and glanced up at the observation window above, shook her head and looked away. April sniffed.

"That boyfriend I told you about? Turns out he has more connections than I had given him credit for. He has a connection inside UNCLE it turned out. UNCLE! Would you believe it, a slime-ball like him? Anyway, he convinced his mate that we were up to no good and they would find something amazing if they raided the place. That night while you were out at that party or whatever it was? They came then, and knocked out that security man Jackson…the one you had guarding me? Kicked him in the chin and knocked him out. I would never have put him down as a man with a glass jaw. Whether or not they searched anywhere else I don't know. I think at that point, Si was just worried about getting me back."

Olivia stared at her.

"So it wasn't you who ratted us out then?"

"Me? How could you think that? Si sent me there in the first place because he said he had heard rumours that some hot shot organization was working out of that place, and if so he would get paid big bucks for some proof. He told me to go down there and look around the grounds. I expected to find a house full of guns and glue-sniffers, but apart from scaring me half to death when I first met those goons of yours, you were all really nice. Much nicer to me than Si ever was. These UNCLE people interrogated your man Jackson for hours and hours. I don't know if he finally cracked, but the next thing I know was I was being hauled out of a meeting with my bank manager this morning and told that someone wanted speak to me urgently. Now I am here. For some reason UNCLE think I am some kind of bad guy. Livvy, you were the one I spoke to most back at that house. Why am I here? If I am being accused of treason, surely I have a right to know why!"

Livvy stared at her. She remembered this girl well. A wholesome type of girl, the sort of person she would have liked to be. The sort she might well have been if it had not been for her father. If she could have been adopted by Miss Sweet's parents perhaps? Would she have ended up a wholesome person like her? She was very much an innocent. Livvy felt very sorry for her. April Sweet had seemed to always be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The wrong boyfriend for a start, who had knocked her about and forced her into this situation in the first place. For the first time, a slight smile touched her lips.

"Didn't you tell them that you were our prisoner?"

"I've not said anything…I did say that I did not see anything wrong in that house that merited a raid by anyone."

Livvy nodded.

"I see. April look, you need to tell them the truth. You were there against your will. I'll tell them the same. It is a fact as far as it goes anyway. I can't see that they can hold you for something you haven't done."

"But you haven't done anything either, Livvy. What right do they have to keep you here?"

Livvy was silent. April frowned.

"What is it? You're not suggesting that Si was right about some big criminal organization operating from that house are you?"

Livvy sighed and looked up. April was surprised to see genuine sadness in her eyes.

"Livvy, what is it?"

"Have you ever wished you were someone else?"

"Once or twice as a kid, but not since then. Why?"

"I have found myself wishing that I was you. Or like you, anyway."

"You said you wanted hair like mine…"

"I know, but that's not it. You are normal, April. I was adopted as a child…"

April eyes opened wide.

"Really? So was I!"

"You were?" Livvy was floored. "That makes it worse in a way. If I had been adopted by your parents instead of you, would I have been you instead of me? I mean would I have been innocent and talented like you are? I am a member of THRUSH, that criminal organization your boyfriend told you about. Not because I want to be but because I was adopted by a THRUSH officer and not given any option."

Up in the gallery, the three watchers held their breaths. How would April handle that confession?

"THRUSH? You're a member because of your father? Can't you just leave?"

Livvy shook her head bitterly.

"THRUSH don't let anyone just leave. Once you are a member, it's for life. And by life I mean for as long as they can find you useful. Once they can no longer use you, they retire you…I mean permanently."

To illustrate, she drew a finger across her throat and April shuddered.

"So you are willing to die for them? An organization that treats you like that? Why don't you…I don't know, turn kings evidence or something…isn't that what they call it?"

"You mean rat on my father and my friends?"

April shrugged unhappily.

"Sorry, I didn't quite see it like that, but you have to decide whether what you get out of it is worth the price you're paying. You're really, inside, a good person Livvy. I mean, whatever you may have done, you want to be a good person. If you really wanted to be someone else…I mean someone more ordinary like…er...like me…the person you might have become if you had been adopted by someone different…well, you know, I don't see why you couldn't strike up some kind of a deal with UNCLE. They might be willing to…oh I don't know what I am saying. What do I know? I'm stuck here just as much as you are."

There was a long silence in the room. The watchers above could see that Livvy was thinking deeply, and that April was being very patient, and waiting her time. Finally, April glanced round.

"Those two…er…people will be back any second now I should think."

Mark glanced at his two companions and nodded to them. This was their cue. Three minutes after the code-phrase from April, they were to re-enter the room. They just hoped that April had not judged things wrong.

So did April!

She watched as Livvy finally got to her feet and paced back and forth across the room.

"April, I even burned that house down so that UNCLE would not have any evidence against me. I just kept thinking of all the things my father made me do…you know he even ordered me to trust your hairdressing talents, without knowing that you were not actually the demon barber in disguise!"

April laughed.

"Are we going to remain solidly silent and end our days in prison?"

"Do you really think UNCLE will listen to me if I try to make a deal?"

"Do you really want to Livvy? Honestly? Even though it would mean sending your father and friends down?"

She paused, and nodded, sadly but decidedly.

"Yes. It was they who brought me to this place. But will they listen to us?"

April smiled.

"Actually Livvy, I guarantee it."

"You do? How? Don't tell me you have a connection here too do you?"

At that moment the door opened and Wicker and Holt came into the room. Livvy stared at them and then at April almost imploringly. April looked down at her feet for a moment.

"One of the things I have always had to do is be a good judge of character, Livvy. I was a beauty therapist for a long time, but that was before I started my present job."

She grasped hold of her mask and pulled it off in one swift movement, then removed her own beautiful hair from its confinement and shook it free. Livvy stared in shock.

"Olivia, I am April Dancer. I am a field agent for UNCLE, and if you really want to make a deal with UNCLE, I will guarantee you a good return for your trust…but you have to trust me."

"Even though you've been lying to me all along?"

"Actually, the only lie I ever told you was about my boyfriend Si. When I was with you in that house, I was there, genuinely, exactly as you thought I was. But I got to know you a little. And you know me too. What do you say Livvy?"

"What deal would you give me? What do you want, and what will I get in return?"

April glanced up at Mark in the gallery and caught his slight nod. She turned back to Livvy.

"We need evidence to link your UNCLE mole Alan Jakeman with your contact at the Embassy, and we need you to name your Embassy contact, and anything you know about the person."

Livvy stared at her.

"Is that it?"

"We already have evidence of your father and your…what is he, your uncle? You don't have to betray them."

"And what will you do for me to protect me from the Embassy man? He has powerful contacts you know."

"We suspect he does, but we need you to tell us directly. What would you like us to do for you?" April smiled. "Do you really want to become someone else?"

Livvy nodded.

"I really do."

"A few weeks in our cosmetic alterations department in San Francisco, a completely new hairstyle and a new identity. We set you up in any state or town you prefer, in an apartment with a job ready to begin. That is, provided you are able to give us chapter and verse."

"For sure?"

April nodded.

"For sure."

MFU MFU MFU MFU

Later that afternoon, Mark and April sat together in their office, staring at each other. They had left Interrogation to conduct friendly talks with Olivia Del Paglio, whom had given them far more than they could ever have dreamed of. She had named Sebastian Koskov without a second's hesitation, and without being asked had gone straight on to describe the way he had been siphoning off Governmental funds on the pretext of making large investments in growing US companies for large expected returns; and had been instead redirecting the money to his own private endeavours.

She also had no trouble providing proof of his connection with the KGB, because Koskov had been the one to act as the messenger between the KGB and her uncle for the purchase of arms. The proof was easily found, as it was waiting in her uncle's warehouse, sat in a trading estate near his home on Long Island. Mark had sent some section two and three men to investigate the warehouse, and had been astounded at the rewards they had reaped.

The only thing they could not do was enter the Russian Embassy and search Koskov's office. However, April had paid a visit in person to speak to the Ambassador to put to him their concerns, and the man had immediately, full of indignation at such accusations, ordered a search to be conducted there and then. He had gone along as a witness, leaving April waiting for ninety minutes in an ante-room. He had returned to her full of gratitude and contrition. When she asked the Ambassador whether he could tell her what his decision might be concerning his Chief of Staff, the Ambassador had looked grim.

"At best the gulag. At worst, the death penalty. Thank you for your assistance in this matter. Forgive me for my former hostility."

And so, somehow, as Mark and April stared at each other, they realized their task was almost completed. All that was left to do was send Emma Linnet and Olivia Del Paglio away to their separate final destinations. Olivia had chosen to go to Cambridge, in England and study law. She would soon be on her way to San Francisco to begin the first stage of her transformation. Emma had undergone her de-training, and was now being escorted to her new appointment by doctor Simpson.

It had taken them some time, but they had finally pieced together the story from the various different sources to put in their final report. April smiled at her partner.

"So are you going to do the final good deed for the day?"

Mark smiled and nodded. He picked up his phone.

"Miss Rogers, can you get me Mister Waverly's home please."

It was with a great deal of satisfaction that Mark was able to relate that the whole sorry affair was solved. Waverly lost no time returning to his office, and greeted Mark and April with a warm smile and hearty handshakes.

"So, who was the traitor?"

Mark and April between them explained the entire affair. Sebastian Koskov had been the lynchpin around which so many different things had been turning. He had close friends and contacts within both the KGB and within THRUSH.

"All right, from the beginning then, someone was betraying Mister Solo and Mister Kuryakin. Who was that and why?"

April sighed.

"Well, that is not really the beginning, sir. You see, we learned through Sidney Halloway, the guy who owned the house on Long Island, that Sebastian Koskov had an infomer within the Russian branch of THRUSH…"

"The Russian branch?"

Mark nodded.

"The thing is, the Russian THRUSH informer was actually Mikhail Kuryakin. Mikhail had big plans for advancement within THRUSH, but if Illya ever found out, Mikhail would become more of a liability than an asset, and he knew it, because Illya had always been able to second guess his brother, even when they were kids. So he wrote out an order for Illya Kuryakin to be assassinated directly, with the promise of huge rewards once Mikhail reached his ultimate goal. Then Mikhail himself contacted Sebastian Koskov and asked him if he knew of anyone within UNCLE who might be ripe for bribery?"

"And he did?" Waverly asked.

April shook her head.

"He told Mikhail that he knew a man, an independent, not a member of any organization who already had a contact within UNCLE in his power and employ."

"Who?" Waverly's eyes grew hard. April looked her boss in the eye.

"Koskov's American contact was Sidney Halloway…He used that house as a THRUSH recruiting ground for strong-arm men, and for scientists as well. We found a bunch of them holed up in the basement. He was not THRUSH himself, but he called himself an ally. Halloway's contact here at UNCLE was twofold."

"Twofold?"

"The traitor, sir, was Alan Jakeman…Cookie. Cookie eventually told us that he had become disillusioned with UNCLE when he was washed out of the agent training program and made to peel potatoes instead. When Halloway offered him a deal, he decided it was too good to miss, and so he has been spying on our spies all this time. Most of the time it was harmless stuff. Halloway did not want to make it too obvious to THRUSH about his UNCLE connection in case they tried to take advantage. But then Koskov called him and he said an old friend wanted a job to be done…and it was through Cookie that Halloway arranged for all those accidents to happen to Napoleon and Illya."

"So what about that letter? That letter to Illya telling him that his brother wanted him dead? Mikhail was already dead by then, and the attacks on Mister Solo and Mister Kuryakin began later."

April nodded.

"No one from THRUSH knew that Mikhail was dead. Only Koskov knew the truth because his KGB friends told him they had found his body and passed it to the U.N.C.L.E in Moscow. Mikhail had been abroad on some whimsical trip, collecting herbs or something, and the only THRUSH people who knew he was back were the people who died beside him in the mine. The KGB officers who went took all their written records."

Waverly nodded.

"So the letter that was found, that memo from Mikhail came from the KGB?"

Mark nodded.

"They gave it to Koskov. He decided that if Illya were to start investigating his brother's death, he might learn too much and open the whole can of worms, as it were; so he gave the letter to the Ambassador with the recommendation that he pass it on to Illya. He believed that if Illya was too grieved and upset learning the truth about his brother, he would not be suspicious enough to start investigating anything."

"So while Illya was grieving the death of his brother, Halloway and Jakeman were arranging for Solo and Kuryakin to die in an apparent accident, thinking of the huge reward Mikhail would eventually give them, not knowing that they would never get it, because the ultimate traitor himself was already dead by then."

Waverly was clearly appalled at the whole sordid story.

"The one man who could have stopped all of this from going too far was Koskov. How could I have been so wrong about him? He has clearly been playing both sides against the middle, simply to gain a better pay day…and to avoid being exposed as a traitor."

The three were silent for a long time, each of them replaying in their minds all that had happened. And for what? For one man, Power. For the others, money. Eventually, Waverly got up and poured drinks for the three of them.

"You have done a sterling job. So, you said there was a second UNCLE traitor. Who, pray?"

April explained about the accidental involvement of nurse Emma Linnet, and the arrangements that had been made for her. Waverly nodded his approval.

"Good. What about that security guard fellow? Sounds like he made a good account of himself in the end."

"He is interested in applying to join UNCLE, section three, sir."

Waverly nodded, smiling.

"I thought he would go for that idea. So, what else have you been spending our sparse finances on?"

Finally, they told him about Olivia Del Paglio agreeing to change her coat in return for a new face and a new identity.

"If it wasn't for her, we wouldn't have had enough to take to the Ambassador…Koskov is a dangerous man, and we had no way to get to him. At least this way his own people will punish him in their own way."

Waverly nodded.

"You did well, both of you. Especially with having to tread carefully in the matter of a criminal with diplomatic immunity. I am also grateful for the swift way in which you were able to clear my name."

"So what now, sir? Do we call Mister Tarasov, or wait for Mister Tarasov to call us or what?"

Waverly sat silently for a few minutes, and then a thought struck him.

"That prisoner you brought back from Russia, Moran? What of him?"

Mark and April looked at each other.

"He's dead, sir."

"Dead? In our custody?"

"Yes, sir. Jakeman murdered him using a knife from the kitchens. He then went and covered the dead man's blood on the knife by purchasing a whole pig and butchering it himself in the kitchen. His staff complained that he made them clean up the bloody mess on the floor."

"But why kill Moran? He seemed to me like a harmless old man, even for a THRUSH officer."

"We don't know yet, sir. We've sent Halloway and Del Paglio…I mean the girl's father to the UNCLE prison, but Jakeman is being uncooperative. I think Moran must have had something else on Jakeman that he didn't want to be revealed. He's not talking."

Waverly nodded in satisfaction.

"Very well then, I will enjoy having a go at him myself! You two get yourselves home and take tomorrow off. You deserve it. Our friends in Russia will contact me when they are ready. It is better to leave things as they are until Wilhelm Tarasov contacts me himself. That was our arrangement."

"But what about…what if…" April began and faltered. Waverly smiled at her.

"If I receive any kind of word from Tarasov, I'll call you Miss Dancer. I promise. Go on now. You look like you could use some downtime."

April linked her arm in Mark's as they left the building together. They stood together outside looking up at the darkening sky. Suddenly they both felt very weary. Very, very weary.


	27. Searching and Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya is still very sick and Napoleon is missing and not yet found. Has everything been for nothing?

Napoleon Solo felt like he had been swimming forever. His blood thundered in his ears, and his injured leg throbbed agonizingly. Despite the warm summer temperature of the air, the water was still freezing cold. It had not long thawed after the bitterly hard Russian winter recently over. He reached the shore line and with a gulp of relief and a heave, he hauled himself on to the bank and rolled over on to his back. The rain still poured down on him, and he wondered if it truly was luck alone that had prevented the lake from being struck by lightning whilst he was still swimming in it? He hated to think of what might have happened. He still needed to get under cover. He was wet and exposed, and although he was by no means the tallest point around, he would still make a better conductor than these trees…an ideal target for a violent electrical storm like this one.

He tried to get up, but pain coursed through his leg and he couldn't help crying out. He wasn't sure if it was broken, but it was agonizingly painful and it would not take his weight. He found he had to drag himself the hundred yards or so to the stand of trees near the shoreline, and by hanging on to a stout young bush, he managed to pull himself up.

Once he was on his feet, he found that although his leg was unable to support his weight enough to walk properly, he was able to shuffle along after a fashion by half-hopping on his good leg, and leaning heavily on a thick stick while he dragged his injured leg behind him. He would get nowhere fast like this, but it was better than laying soaking wet beside a large lake in the middle of a thunderstorm at night. The problem was, where to head for? No direction seemed to show any more promise than any other, and Napoleon had completely lost his bearings. He chose a direction at random and started to shuffle painfully ahead, looking out for somewhere to shelter.

The Russian Doctor, Ruslan Garanin gently picked up the little girl who had once again fallen asleep at the bedside of her uncle. The little thing had hardly moved from Agent Kuryakin's side since her arrival with her grandfather. Illya himself seemed to be holding his own against the sickness that ravaged his skinny body. He was holding his own, but he was not getting any better. His fever was still dangerously high, and seemed resistant to all available treatments. His internal temperature was almost off the scale, his skin pouring with sweat, and yet he shivered as though he were freezing cold. The little girl had been trying valiantly to be brave. She had sat beside him for two days now, holding his large hand in her small ones, talking to him, pleading with him to wake up and stroking his face, brushing the blond bangs away from his forehead. Eventually though, her fear for him got the better of her and she had started crying, quietly, trying not to let it show. Exhaustion finally overcame her and she slept, still occasionally whimpering even in her sleep.

The child was more intelligent than was good for her, Garanin reflected. She was definitely related to Illya Kuryakin. Some at least of his intellectual brilliance had been passed down to her. Very young though she was, she had already lived through troublesome times and she knew very well the likely outcome of her Uncle Illya's sickness. The thought frightened and upset her more than she was letting on. She was trying to be brave. Garanin felt sorry for the child. At the age of six she should be playing in the park, throwing a ball for a puppy-dog or being bounced on someone's knee. She shouldn't be troubled in this way. He knew, too, how she would react if he tried to tell her to go play in the park instead of sitting here in vigil over her uncle.

He lay her on an adjacent bed and covered her with the sheets. Dimming the medical bay lights slightly, he took her seat and settled in to watch over the pair of them for the night.

Garanin was worried about agent Kuryakin. He had expected the young man to continue fighting his inner battle with the same strength that he fought every battle, but ever since he had awakened the first day, asked for his friend and partner and been told of his disappearance and probable death, he had seemed to lose his way a little. It was not that he had stopped fighting. On the contrary, Garanin believed that Illya was still fighting as hard as ever. It was just as though losing Napoleon had robbed Illya of half his strength.

Hope for the missing American agent was rapidly fading now. The choices were becoming limited. Possibility: dead. A very real possibility considering their discovery of the wrecked helicopter in the lake. No body had been found, however, so he clearly had either got out before the crash, or his body had been swept away. It had not washed up anywhere however, so the likelihood of his having drowned was greatly diminished.

If he had escaped the crash though, where was he now? Laying somewhere, hurt? Had he been discovered by THRUSH? Was he even now in some THRUSH satrap undergoing torture, knowing that with his death being a probability, no one would ever come searching for him? The whole idea was unthinkable. If Illya had been clear-headed long enough to think about it, that alone might explain his downward turn. Garanin wondered how long Tarasov would continue the search before giving up?

Tarasov sat in his office, reading through routine reports from his agents, with only half his mind on his task. The other half was focused more on the sick young man down in medical, and the missing American.

They had dragged the river with no results.

They had searched the shorelines and every cave and hollow, but found nothing.

Now they had people out walking through the fields and villages, looking into every bush and hollowed out tree, knocking on every door. How far can it go before…? If Napoleon was dead, where was his body? If he was alive, it was beginning to look more and more like he had been captured by THRUSH. In which case he could be almost anywhere in the world by now.

The THRUSH frequencies had been silent on the subject of Solo, but that did not of itself ensure that he was not already in their power.

Tarasov put down the report he was reading, He had read it three times now without taking in any of it. He was convinced that there was something important he was missing. Something he should have seen, or remembered…or done? The thought plagued him like an itch he could not scratch. Something he had forgotten perhaps? He rubbed his eyes and picked up the UNCLE communicator. He needed a fresh perspective, and quickly.

Mark and April arrived at Mister Waverly's office together, wondering about the sudden summons from the old man. In the day or two since the conclusion of The Traitorous Affair, as someone had called it, they had been busy catching up on reports, paperwork and debriefings that had had to be temporarily sidelined. What could this be about?

Waverly waved them to a seat as they entered. The view-screen was activated and they recognized the face of Wilhelm Tarasov right away. He gave them a warm nod of greeting as he saw them.

"Hello sir."

"Agents Slate and Dancer, good to see you again. I understand you discovered the identity of our traitor. I've been looking through some of the reports. A very creditable job."

"Thank you sir. Is everything else all right, sir?" April asked, sensing that there was indeed something amiss. Tarasov shook his head and glanced at Waverly. Waverly turned to them.

"Mister Tarasov had to use code to communicate some important information to me before this call. You need to know before we begin that at this present moment, Mister Kuryakin is in medical in Moscow, sick with pneumonia, Mister Solo is missing, presumed dead. To cut a long story short, he took a chopper out in a thunderstorm in an attempt to lure THRUSH after him. He apparently crashed into a lake…"

Waverly glanced back at Tarasov and nodded. He nodded back and continued.

"So you see, I want your help. Our friend has gone missing, and we have done everything we can to find him, but nothing. We have dragged the lake and found and searched the helicopter, but there is no body. We cannot even fully ascertain whether he is alive or dead. If he has been captured by our feathered foes, we may never find him."

Mark and April glanced at each other. Napoleon missing, possibly dead? And Illya sick? Did this mean they might still lose the two senior agents, after all that had happened?

"How can we help? Would you like us to fly out to help with the search?"

Tarasov shook his head.

"You'd be very welcome, but that is not why I called. I'm not short of helping hands, but information. During the course of our meetings whilst you two were here I have a vague recollection of something specific being said about the possibility of capture, but I simply cannot bring it to mind. I've asked my Numbers One and Two, but they have no idea what I'm even getting at. I'm not even sure myself really. But I know there is something important that I have forgotten. Something that…look you two, think back over all the conversations we had…does anything come to mind?"

Mark and April looked baffled. What on earth was the man getting at? They started to think back a few days ago when they were sitting with Napoleon and Illya in Tarasov's office in Moscow. Illya had been set on walking into the THRUSH building pretending to be his dead brother, and they had both been concerned about him being discovered. Napoleon had insisted that Illya was not going in there alone. He would go along as a captive if necessary, but he couldn't allow Illya to put himself in danger without being nearby. He had been convinced that if Illya took a captive with him, it would strengthen his credibility. Between them Mark and April started to recall bits of pieces of the conversations they had had. Suddenly April smote herself.

"Mark, the pills! Those micro-transmitters of Illya's! I gave them one each and told them to swallow them. They keep transmitting for two weeks, even if they were to die."

Tarasov leapt to his feet.

"That was it!" he shouted in triumph, "I knew I could count on one of you two remembering. What is the frequency?"

April gave him the details. Tarasov thanked her, and even as he was saying goodbye, he was already running out of the room. After a moment, the screen went blank and April turned her back on it.

"Sir…?"

Waverly shook his head.

"Sorry, I can't spare you both to be away…" he saw the look in both their eyes and smiled. He had been in their shoes himself in his youth.

"I still need an acting CEA and our number three is not quite up to it yet. One of you will have to remain here to cover Mister Solo's duties. The other may go to Moscow with my blessing. Decide between you."

"April should go to Russia." Mark replied instantly without the need to look at his partner. "Whatever happens with either of them, they are more likely to respond to April's comfort than mine."

April hugged her partner, glanced quickly at Waverly, and receiving his nod of approval, she dashed from the room.

Agent Molovitski sat in the commissary with the elderly former THRUSH officer. The old man had explained that he was here as part of a deal he had made with Napoleon Solo, but that he was not about to enter into any kind of discussion until either Solo or Kuryakin were able to be present. Since Kuryakin was sick and Solo still missing, it looked as though they might end up babysitting this fellow and his granddaughter indefinitely. However, he had brought their sick agent here to safety, so the old man had at least that in his favour. It was largely on Illya's account that Molovitski was willing, for the time being, to take Kossov at face value. He had however, decided that the wise course was to remain cautious, so Kossov was to be accompanied at all times until Tarasov decided that he could be trusted, or conversely, until Solo or Kuryakin were able to tell them what the hell was going on?

Kossov was no fool, and he had been THRUSH long enough to know the danger he potentially posed, being here in the U.N.C.L.E headquarters like this. He did not resent the limitations that had been placed upon him, knowing full well that he would have done exactly the same if the positions had been reversed. The only thing that really only concerned him right now was his granddaughter, and that young man lying in bed downstairs in medical. Having discovered that his granddaughter had only the one other relation other than himself, it was important to him that Illya should get well, if only for Katiya's sake. He knew he would not live forever in any case, and should the inevitable happen sooner rather than later, it was important that there would be someone who loved her willing to take care of her. Illya had to get well. He just had to!

Molovitski's partner, Polokofiev was down in medical, sitting by the bedside of the sick man. Illya had had one or two clear-headed moments, and each time he had asked for his partner. The first time the child had been here, and she had been forced to admit that she did not know where Napoleon was. The second time the doctor had tried to evade the question by saying simply that Napoleon was not here right now, but he would be here soon; in the hope that Illya would be mollified. He was not.

Illya felt terrible. Breathing was too much trouble, coughing hurt, and inevitably led to his throwing up violently. Everything hurt, and half the time he was unsure whether he was asleep or awake. The only thing that remained clear in his mind was that someone had been beside his bed permanently. And that someone, so far had not been Napoleon. Where was Napoleon? Where was his partner?

Most of the time someone had been holding his hand, someone with tiny hands and a sweet, high little voice that whispered lovingly to him and stroked his face. His niece, Katiya. Now she was gone, but Illya was half aware of someone still beside him. Someone taller. Napoleon?

"It's me. We're still looking for Napoleon. We have his tracker signal frequency now, so we should find him soon. Come on Illya, you can fight this thing man."

Illya struggled to open his eyes and focus them.

"Roman…is it you?"

Polokofiev impulsively gripped his old friend's hand. Illya had saved his life more than once before he had been transferred to New York. He grabbed a damp flannel, soaked it in cold water, wrung it out and gently wiped Illya's face with it, cooling him down.

"Are you still with me, Illya?"

"Yes.Roman, where is my partner? I mean, what happened to him? How long have I been here?"

Roman Polokofiev sighed softly.

"Kir Yuriyev Kossov brought you in two days ago my friend. You've been delirious most of the time since then. Kossov tells us that THRUSH were coming after him to take you and the little girl away, so your partner Solo went up in the storm in Kossov's helicopter to draw THRUSH after him so that Kossov could take you and the child and escape."

"He brought us here?"

Polokofiev nodded.

"That old man may be THRUSH, but he's no monster. He sees you as family. When we picked you up, he referred to you as his son-in-law. A slip of the tongue I think, but that is how he seems to view you."

"So what happened to Napoleon? Did THRUSH shoot him down?"

"All we know is…" here the man paused, and Ilya could see he did not want to say any more. Illya wanted to know the truth. He needed to know.

"Tell me Roman."

"We found the helicopter at the bottom of a lake, but no Napoleon. It looks like he got out all right, but we've not been able to find him."

"Why didn't you use his tracker signal straight away?"

Polokofiev looked downcast. Illya shook his head and closed his eyes.

"You forgot we swallowed them, yes?"

"Yes."

"Let us hope that when you find Napoleon, he is not worse for having to wait two days to be found…" here Illya broke off as he was convulsed with a fit of violent coughing. The nurse dashed forward to support him, and held a bowl for him as he started to retch, and Polokofiev made his escape.

When Polokofiev arrived in the commissary, his partner looked up expectantly. He opened his mouth to speak, but Kossov beat him to it.

"How is Illya doing?"

"Not so good. Holding on, but getting weaker. He woke up for a few minutes while I was there though, and he was asking me about his partner. Sorry Pyotr, but I had to tell him the truth. I had no choice. Now he seems to be struggling more than ever."

"What about my granddaughter?"

"She's sleeping sir, on one of the other beds in medical. The poor kid is worn out from sitting with her uncle, and worrying about him."

Kossov nodded.

"She thinks the world of him, you know. He reminds her of her father to look at, naturally, except he is everything a father should be and her father was not. Kind, gentle, loving, caring..."

"The very epitome of a Section Two UNCLE agent!" Polokofiev put in drily. Kossov ignored the remark.

"I want to go down there and sit with both of them myself for a bit. Is that all right?"

"Sure. Let's go. Roman, when you've finished eating, I want you to take over from me for two hours whilst I finish up some paperwork."

Polokofiev nodded and watched as his partner led Kossov out of the room, to head down toward medical. As they stood together in the lift, the Russian CEA turned to his companion.

"You're going to leave with the child aren't you?"

"Why do you say that?"

Molovitski smiled.

"I'm not stupid, Kir Yuriyev. Since you were being chased by THRUSH, that suggests you have left them permanently, which I know THRUSH do not take kindly to. If you were planning on leaving the child with Illya, you would have made whatever deal it is you are after and you would be gone already. Since you are still here, it is clear you are waiting only for Illya to get well so that you can talk to him and get his agreement or approbation or something, before you take off. Perhaps just to say your own goodbyes to him. Either way, after searching the country for his niece, and even being prepared to abandon his career with UNCLE for her, you are going to take her away from him forever."

"Do you think I am wrong for wanting to take care of my own granddaughter?" Kossov looked slightly wary. Molovitski shook his head. He was smiling, but his eyes looked sorrowful.

"Not at all. I was just thinking about Illya, that's all. He's already lost everything, and here he thinks he's found his missing happiness, and he's about to lose it all over again, and he doesn't know it yet."

"And for all he knows his partner might be dead."

Molovitski nodded. Kossov sighed deeply and shook his head.

"That's the thing about caring for people. It gives you a conscience, makes you care what happens to them. Life was much more comfortable for me when my daughter was still alive. I had no one to have a conscience about. I loved my family of course, but Mikhail was the sort of person I could love and loathe at the same time. THRUSH gives you a purpose without the need for unnecessary personal entanglements. As soon as I lost my daughter, Katiya came to live with me, and suddenly I found that conscience within me that I thought THRUSH had driven away long ago. I managed to ignore it for a while…until Illya and his friend arrived; pretending to be THRUSH of course. I was taken in all right, but katiya was not fooled for a second."

"She's a smart kid."

"She has a pure heart. THRUSH would corrupt her if they could, and I couldn't bear for Katiya to change. I need to take her away, hide her so that THRUSH can't get their hands on her. If I know that Illya is safe, then I know that if something happens to me, she will still have someone to care for her."

Molovitski saw the sadness in the old man's eyes, and knew that he really did care, not just about himself and the child, but about Illya too. The thought that he was going to inevitably shatter the young man's already broken heart hurt him more than he was willing to admit. He rested his hand lightly on the other's shoulder.

"Kir, Illya cares about others more than he does himself. He's proven that many times over. Whatever his personal feelings, he will agree with you. Even if it does hurt him, he won't argue with you when it comes to it. He will always do what is best for Katiya."

"Even if he ends up a broken man?"

"Even then. Illya's entire world shattered a couple of years ago when his wife and son died in a tragic accident. They fell into the Danube during a storm and drowned. But Illya was reassigned to New York, and partnered with Napoleon Solo. Solo has apparently been a good friend to Illya, and helped him to carry on with his life. He'll help him this time too."

"And what if Solo is dead? Who will help Illya then?"

Molovitski had no reply.

Napoleon Solo watched the little old lady as she bustled about her kitchen…such as it was. A trestle table propped against the wall beside a large open fireplace with a cooking pot hanging over the top of it. A large bucket filled with water from her well sat on the floor beside the door. Needless the say, this was about the most ancient cottage Napoleon had ever seen. The old woman herself was almost as ancient it seemed, but she was alert and active, and firmly ordered Napoleon about in a voice that would brook no arguments.

He had happened upon her, or rather, she had happened upon him after he had spent hours dragging himself through the woods, jumping at every unfamiliar noise, uncertain whether the Wolves that were so prolific in this part of the world roamed this area. He had finally slumped to the ground half hidden beneath some shrubbery, wet, exhausted and in pain. There she had found him a few hours later.

She was so old and frail, that at first he could not think how she had had the strength to convey him to her cottage; but when he asked her she had cackled at him. Her solution, she informed him, was simply. She had returned to her cottage for her donkey, and tied a large plank of wood to him to act as a litter. She had merely rolled the unconscious man over and over until he was on the litter, then she tied him down and the patient little donkey had dragged Solo back home for her.

A mattress on the floor for his use was good enough, and she had examined him thoroughly, cleaned his cuts and abrasions, and applied a splint to his right ankle. She had not been certain whether it was broken or badly sprained, but she had done a great job of patching him up. Now, he was to sit still, not move and eat and drink everything she pressed upon him without arguing.

"How do I address you?" he asked her.

"Babushka." She told him firmly. Napoleon nodded respectfully

"Thank you for your kindness babushka. You don't even know where I came from."

She grinned at that.

"You're American."

"How did you know that?"

"Your Russian is passable. Your accent is terrible."

"It's good of you to care for me. I have friends who will search for me and find me. They will take me off your hands soon. They will want to offer repayment for your kindness."

She made no reply to that. She handed him a bowl of soup and a bread roll and left him alone to eat. Babushka was not a great conversationalist, but she did well with the little she had around her, and made Napoleon feel welcome.

Once he managed to get himself to his feet after two days lying on his back inside the cottage, he found a pair of roughly made crutches waiting for him. To his surprise, they were his exact size. With their help he was able to make his way reasonably quickly outside. Babushka's face softened when she saw him on his feet.

"Babushka, did you make these?"

She nodded the affirmative. Napoleon's eyebrows raised in surprise and she smiled suddenly.

"No one else to do for me young man. I do all right."

Napoleon sat beside her on the bench and looked into her eyes.

"Babushka, you do better than all right. You are an amazing person. Thank you. They are perfect."

"I made them the morning I brought you here." She told him, returning to her stiff persona once again. "But I thought you should have them now. You will be leaving here today."

Something clenched in his stomach for a moment.

"I will?"

"A helicopter with whirling blades has been circling overhead for the last forty minutes or so. You said someone would be coming for you. It looks like they have found you."

"Yes…well…"

She turned to him with a frown.

"You did say your friends would be…?"

"Um…yes, they will. But I have enemies who might also be searching for me…"

She rolled her eyes.

"Get inside. What is the name of the person you are waiting for?"

What Napoleon wanted to say more than anything else was `Illya', but who knew whether Illya was even still alive?

"U.N.C.L.E."

"The what?"

"UNCLE. I work for an organization called UNCLE. They will come for me, and they will identify themselves."

She nodded and gestured with her head for him to return inside the cottage. Napoleon eased himself on to the only chair and settled down to wait.

The skies were clear, as the unmarked helicopter flew low across open countryside. Beside the pilot, Agent Oshiro studied the readings on his receiver box, occasionally pointing to the pilot to change direction. Every so often he spoke into the ship's onboard communications array, giving directional commands to the team leading the search on the ground. His partner, Aminov was leading the men on the ground by following directions relayed from the chopper. For the past hour they had travelled in circles searching for a signal, but now there it was. Faint, but undeniable. Following the signal, Oshiro relayed instructions to his partner on the ground and turned to the pilot.

"Is there anywhere near we can put down?"

The pilot shook his head.

"Sorry, can't afford a landing and another take off as well as flying all the way back sir. We don't have enough fuel left. We'll have to leave extraction to the team on the ground."

Oshiro nodded. He contacted his partner.

"Chopper to ground crew. Aminov?"

"Itaru!"

"Sergei. Do you have the signal on your scanner now?"

"Yes my friend, going strong. When will you be able to join us?"

"Sorry Sergei, we're almost out of fuel. We need to make our way back to HQ right away. Contact me if you need anything. Want me to follow you out here?"

"That's all right Itaru, you've done the important bit. You can have a coffee waiting for me in the commissary for when we get back though; Or better yet, something stronger?"

"Already done. Let us know how you get on. Out."

Sergei Aminov looked around at his group of men.

"Come on, let's go!" He led the way into the trees.

Wilhelm Tarasov had gone past the point of hiding his worry and concern by now. He had taken short catnaps in his private room, but had been unable to sleep very much. Between Solo missing out in the wilds somewhere, possibly at the risk of wolves or worse, young Kuryakin down in medical, still shivering, sweating and shuddering in the grip of pneumonia, and Kir Yuriyev Kossov, a well-known THRUSH general still wandering around headquarters as free as a bird, when was this chapter of problems going to end? He found his feet taking him downstairs to medical, hoping against hope for some kind of miracle. He was met at the door by doctor Garanin who was in the act of charging through it. They almost collided. Garanin gasped and pulled up short.

"Sorry mister Tarasov, I was just coming up to see you, sir."

"You were? I do hope you have good news for me doctor. I have had my fill of the bad at the moment."

Doctor Garanin smiled and inclined his head.

"Come and take a look at this, sir."

Inside the medical room, the patient, Illya Kuryakin still lay on the bed. Kossov sat in a chair on one side, little Katiya on the other, and they were each holding a hand and talking softly.

As Tarasov came close, he noticed that Illya was calm and still, his eyes still, sleeping peacefully. His face was dry and cool to the touch, and his breathing was smooth and silent. The terrifying struggle to draw each breath was behind him. Tarasov became aware that he had been holding his breath, and he let it go, letting feelings of relief wash over him. The little girl looked around as he came up to stand beside her.

"Uncle Illya is going to get well!" she informed him, a big smile on her face. "He's nearly better!"

Tarasov smiled at her and looked across at the child's grandfather.

"All we need now is for Mister Solo to be found alive and well."

Kossov nodded.

"I think I should conduct my initial conversations with Illya. However…"

Kossov followed the Chief to the door and spoke in a low voice.

"Mister Solo did say that…um…when Katiya and I disappear to hide permanently from THRUSH, Illya is not to know where we are, or who we are…that is, assuming he agrees to the plan…"

Tarasov nodded.

"Since you have made yourself a particular target for THRUSH, and they of course have good reason to know what Illya looks like, he would be a danger to you both should he ever show up…it would be best if he remained completely in the dark. He won't like it, but…"

"Mister Tarasov, you know him better than most…except perhaps his partner I suppose, but you know his past. Would he…I mean will I be…" Kossov failed to come up with the words he wanted. Tarasov sympathized with the man.

"I believe I know what you are trying to ask, and yes, he will be hurting badly at having to say goodbye to his niece; he might even be shattered, but he will survive."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

Kossov looked uncertain, but said no more. He turned back to the sickbed and regained his seat. Tarasov looked at the doctor.

"Was I right doctor Garanin? Will Mister Kuryakin survive another broken heart?"

Garanin clasped the chief's shoulders.

"Has Mister Kuryakin's heart ever been whole? His heart first broke when he was a boy didn't it? According to his files…sir, he will learn to live with his losses, just as he has always had to. As we all have had to."

Tarasov nodded.

"I wonder…" he began, then broke off, shaking his head and turned away, walking out of the room.

Japanese agent Itaru Oshiro strode through the corridors of UNCLE, heading for the chief's office, a wide smile plastered across his face. As he was knocking at the door, Tarasov came up from behind and startled him.

"Sir!"

"You have a report for me Mister Oshiro?"

Oshiro nodded.

"Sir, we picked up the signal and followed it to its source. Sergei and the guys went on foot and they found Napoleon Solo being cared for by an amazing old lady who refused to give her name. He has an injured ankle, and a few cuts and grazes, but Sergei says that aside from that everything seems to be fine. They are bringing him back now, sir. The old lady was asked what she would like as a reward for her kindness."

"She was given carte blanche?"

Oshiro grinned.

"Yes sir."

"And what did she ask for?"

"A new wheelbarrow, sir."

Tarasov blinked.

"A new wheelbarrow eh? I think we can probably afford to get her a new wheelbarrow. And Solo is all right? How far away from the Lake?"

"Three or four miles is all, sir. They should be here in about ninety minutes or so from now."

Tarasov sat down at his desk. Suddenly he was feeling incredibly sleepy.

Illa Kuryakin was dreaming. Dreaming of a time long ago, when mama and papa were still alive, and his siblings…his sisters playing with him, Mikhail beside him giggling and whispering secrets, Uncle Dimitry always there with a kindly word and a lap always available for a hurt or scared little boy to sit upon and gain comfort. Then intruding upon the pleasant memories came the picture of Mikhail, lying dead on the slab, and laid out beside him, Illya saw Elinor and baby Dimitri. He shuddered in his sleep, trying to wake up, but the dream changed. This time it was Katiya laid out cold and dead on the slab, and Napoleon beside her, his eyes wide open, staring almost accusingly, whispering over and over; "You killed me! It's your fault. You were not there. It's your fault Illya! Illya! Illya!"

"…Illya! Illya!"

Illya struggled and awoke, his mind still full of the images from his dream. He tried to swallow the huge lump in his throat left by the vivid images and slowly brought his vision into focus. A face was leaning over him, clutching his hand. Black hair, brown eyes, a warm smile…

"Napoleon? Are you real?"

The face nodded, but Illya was still not quite awake, uncertain what was real and what was imaginary. He reached out his hand, expecting his fingers to pass through the face like a mirage. He touched skin, warm, dry, rough with almost three days' growth of beard, but unmistakably real.

"You are real…I thought you were dead Napoleon, I thought I had lost you."

Napoleon shook his head slowly.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't be here while you were sick my friend. I was scared I would lose you too. Are you all right?"

Illya was staring at his friend, feasting his eyes. He had convinced himself two days ago that Napoleon must be dead. For him to be here now…but the hand holding his was solid and strong. He managed a weak smile.

"I don't suppose you could get me out of here could you?"


	28. Homeward Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final arrangements are made for Katiya's future and safety, but can there be any place for Illya in it?

Napoleon was sitting sideways on an adjacent bed to Illya's whilst his sprained ankle was tightly bandaged by the efficient nurse on duty. Beside her, the doctor was speaking in a low voice. He gestured to Illya, sleeping uneasily in his bed.

"His fever has broken and his lungs are a lot clearer. He's having no trouble breathing now, so I am confident he will fully recover; but it will do him more harm than good to run before he can walk. I have given him a light sedative to encourage him to get his rest. He will keep trying to get out of bed."

Napoleon nodded.

"Sorry, but that's Illya. He hates hospitals I'm afraid."

"So do I, but they are a necessary evil, especially for section two agents. He behaves best when the little girl is here."

Napoleon nodded.

"She won't be here for very much longer."

The doctor nodded.

"I suspected so. Bad news for our patient?"

"Very. Please don't sedate him again for the time being though doc', we need him awake. We need to talk to him."

"Then I suggest you are here when he wakes up. Last time he threatened to leave medical and return to his quarters stark naked if we did not return his clothing to him. It was only the child entering the room at that moment that saved the situation."

Napoleon grinned. That was Illya all right. But what kind of a mood was he going to be in once they had had their discussion? One that he must know was inevitable, even if he was refusing to think about it.

"When will he wake up?"

"Give him about an hour and he should begin to stir."

"Okay, we'll be back then. It will be good if the room is empty by the way…no offense, but I am afraid the discussion will be confidential."

The doctor nodded.

"Very well. See you in an hour."

Napoleon returned to Mister Tarasov's office. Tarasov was there with Kossov and Katiya also. They were waiting for Solo's report.

"He's giving them trouble as usual." He told them. "The doctor has sedated him, but he'll be waking up in about an hour."

"How is Uncle Illya? Is he well again now?" The little voice of Katiya piped up hopefully. Solo smiled at her.

"Nearly. Now we have to have a serious talk with your uncle."

"Is it about me coming to live with him?"

Kossov and Solo met each other's gaze. It was Tarasov who answered her.

"It would be too dangerous for you to go and live with Uncle Illya at the moment young lady. Those bad people your dedushka was telling you about is after all three of you. They want your deda because he…uh…did something to them that they didn't like. They want you because they want to turn you bad like they are."

The girl looked indignant.

"I wouldn't go bad!"

"When people like this are trying to make you, it can sometimes be very hard to refuse. They also know how to hurt people. Have you seen all the scars on your uncle's body?"

She nodded, remembering.

"Is that what they would do to me if they got me?"

"It is what they would do to anyone who refuses to agree with them. We need to hide you and your dedushka safely so that no one knows where you are."

"But Uncle Illya could come too couldn't he? He could come and see us and ride with me?"

When she did not receive the immediate "Yes of course!" that she was expecting, her eyes filled with tears and her lower lip started to quiver.

"But I want Uncle Illya! I want my Papa Illya to be with me!"

The three men in the room felt their hearts go out to her, but the dangers were just too great. Kossov hunkered down and she walked into his arms and started to sob, softly and almost silently, but desperately and clearly unable to help herself. Kossov patted her back and stroked her hair. Solo looked at his watch.

"We need to go see Illya before he starts causing trouble for the doc again."

Down in the medical bay, they found, to their surprise, Illya was already awake and angry at having been sedated. When his partner walked into the room he opened his mouth to expostulate, but closed it again when he realized that Napoleon was not alone. Something clenched tightly in the pit of his stomach. A deputation like this, with Wilhelm Tarasov as well could only mean one thing. He glared around as they surrounded his bed.

"Well? What decision have you made?"

Illya could not deny the truth. THRUSH was ridiculously angry that one of their most powerful and influential generals had defected to UNCLE because of a child. That was a matter of common knowledge now. Had they known about the child, the child of their brightest brain, Mikhail Kuryakin no less, they would have done everything in their power to secure her. They would have had someone rear her with THRUSH ideals and trained her. An intelligent child could be trained to find ways of defeating UNCLE once and for all. Now they knew that Mikhail was dead for certain, there was no point going after his brother any longer, but Illya Kuryakin still had his uses. He would be easy to spot, looking so like his brother. Any THRUSH agent could be trained to spot and follow him until he led them to the wayward general Kossov and his promising granddaughter.

Illya argued and fought long and hard, but he knew in his heart of hearts that if they were to give way to him, he would still not be able to go through with it. He still couldn't safely either care for or even visit his niece. Illya Kuryakin visiting an old man and a child would be tantamount to suspending a gigantic neon sign over their heads.

He had searched hard for her, and he had found her and now he was going to lose her. It was as simple as that. What was this about getting him to agree? Agree to what? He had no choice. If he wanted them to stay alive and free, then he had to let them go. He had to let Katiya go. He finally nodded blindly, drawing his knees up close to his chest and just as he had the other day in Kossov's cellar, he wrapped his arms around his knees and buried his face in his arms. He sat there, taking no more part in anything going on around him.

"Illya my boy!" Kossov called in a gentle voice, but to no avail.

"Mister Kuryakin!" Tarasov tried a commanding tone, but Illya ignored them all. Napoleon gestured to his companions to leave the room quietly. Katiya watched the men go, and shook her head vigorously when dedushka tried to usher her out. She saw Uncle Illya's friend Napoleon smile at her encouragingly, and he closed the door, leaving her alone with her uncle.

She approached his bed. She did not really understand what was so bad with both deda and uncle looking after her together, but she now understood that there was some kind of danger involved that meant they must hide from bad people. It meant that having met papa's little brother Illya, she was going to lose him again.

He still had not moved position. She wondered if he was crying? She only ever sat in that position when she was really, really upset and didn't know what else to do. She crept up to him and stroked his arm gently.

"I love you Uncle Illya!" she told him in her sweet little voice. After a startled moment, Illya raised his head and saw the room was empty. Only Katiya remained beside him. She was smiling, but her eyes were full of tears. He swung his legs off the bed and raised her chin with his forefinger.

"I love you, my little Katiya, oh, so much. And I have to say goodbye to you."

He saw the teardrops fall from her eyes and roll down her cheeks, but she was still smiling up at him.

"Deda said you won't be able to come and see me. He said that if you did the bad people would follow you and find us."

Illya nodded. He had so much he would have loved to tell the little girl, but how could she possibly take it? She was still so young.

"THRUSH…I mean the bad people you have to hide from, they will forget about you in the end. They like little girls your age because they think they can still make you like they are. As you get older, they know it would be much harder so they'll forget about you."

"They won't ever forget about deda will they?"

Illya shook his head.

"No they never will. But Katiya…you have to know this and always, always, always remember it. I love you up to the sky. I always will. Dedushka will take good care of you, but if anything ever happens to him, you can tell whoever is looking after you that you have an uncle. I will always come and get you if you need me. You promise me you will remember that and never, ever forget?"

"I promise."

"You know they are going to want to change your name, don't you?"

"They will?"

Illya smiled.

"Of course! Makes it much harder to find you if they give you a different name, different hairstyle…"

"But I like my name!"

"Ooh, I like it too, but we can always choose another that you like nearly as much."

Katiya stared at him, her eyes twinkling.

"Uncle Illya, are you being naughty? If I have to hide to stay safe, and you aren't allowed to visit, then you can't know my name can you? If you knew my name, you could find me, and then we would be found by the bad people!"

At his nod, she stared at him, as though the truth was just now dawning on her.

"It means I have to hide from you, too doesn't it? I might not see you again, ever, ever!"

Illya gulped visibly, something impassable stuck in his throat, feeling like his heart was being ripped out of his body. Suddenly he was kneeling down on the floor beside the bed, holding the little girl tightly to him, fighting for control of his emotions. Katiya had no such inhibitions. She clung to him, weeping desperately, her tears wetting his pyjamas. Finally, he rested his cheek on the top of her head, wetting her hair with his tears.

April Dancer remembered the girl on duty in reception and nodded politely. Although she spoke little Russian, everyone here spoke English, fortunately. The girl remembered her and smiled.

"Miss Dancer from the New York office. Good to see you again. If you are looking for Mister Tarasov and Mister Solo, they are down in medical with Mister Kuryakin."

April accepted her badge with a smile and a nod, and headed down to medical. She met Napoleon just as she was stepping out of the lift. She raised her eyebrows at his bandaged leg and crutches.

"For a dead man, Napoleon, you don't look bad at all."

To say Napoleon was surprised was an understatement.

"April! What are you doing back here?"

"Got bored in New York. I thought I'd come and see if I can make myself useful here."

Napoleon smiled.

"Are you good with kids?"

"Why?"

Napoleon walked her down the corridor a way, out of earshot as he talked with her. Presently she nodded and gave him a grin and stood watching as he entered the lift with his companions, then made her way towards medical.

When she walked in, at first glance the room seemed empty. A little investigation found two miserable figures huddle on the floor together, wrapped in each other's arms, fast asleep.

Illya had still not spoken a word. He and little Katiya had insisted on remaining together every moment they could until the time came for Kossov and his granddaughter to make their goodbyes and be spirited away to who knew where. It was clear that Illya was depressed, and for good reason. Napoleon's heart was aching for his friend. He had known in his heart that the man who came home with him, if he ever did, would not be the same man whom had arrived with him. Illya was, and looked, truly shattered. His face was white, his eyes were dry and glacial, and he was totally non responsive.

He and April had tried their best to help their friend, but Illya was having none of it. He did not seem angry, or even upset actually. He seemed…empty. A mere shell of a man. As if all of his emotions had been used up, that there was not a single teardrop left in his body.

Finally, Napoleon gave up his attempts to provoke any kind of response from his friend, and got up from his seat to join April in the plane's galley. April was looking very upset herself.

"Have you ever seen Illya like that before, Napoleon? It's almost as if he's…I don't know, some kind shop window mannequin, made to look like our Illya. There's no emotion or anything. Just a shell of who he was. I hate to see him like that."

Napoleon hugged her briefly.

"Thank you for being here, April. Those last three days would have been so much harder if you hadn't been around to offer moral support."

"You and Illya are as close as brothers to Mark and me." She told him sincerely. "I just wish there was something we could do to help Illya."

Napoleon nodded.

"This past week or two has been so hard on him. You know how private and closed up he has always been. He doesn't show his feelings, he'd die first."

She smiled at that.

"Yes."

"The very first time he ever really showed the true depth of his feelings was when he told me about Mikhail, when he'd been told about his brother's death and betrayal."

Napoleon shook his head.

"My partner wept a lake of tears that day…"

He glanced over to the rear of the plane, where Illya still sat unmoving, staring unseeingly out of the window.

"He's gone beyond emotion, April. He's numb. How much loss can one man take without losing his sanity? How can he ever, possibly become the man he used to be? No one should ever have to live the life that he's had to live and still…"

Napoleon's voice broke and he turned away. April enfolded him in a hug, and for a moment he rested his forehead on her shoulder, then pulled away.

"Got any vodka there?" She nodded and poured out a large glass of vodka, and then a large scotch.

"Go on. You've both earned them. I'll keep out of the way."

Napoleon smiled his thanks and took the drinks to the rear of the plane. He nudged Illya and put the vodka in his hand. Illya stared at the glass stupidly for a minute, then took a large gulp, and then another. Within half a minute the glass was empty.

"Thanks."

Napoleon nodded.

"So, are you going to talk to me?"

"What about?"

"What about? The weather? What do you think? Illya you're my partner, and I hate to see you hurting so much. I can't even begin to imagine how you must be feeling…"

"You're right, you can't!" Illya snapped. Napoleon recoiled slightly, but he stood his ground.

"Illya, you are going to have to talk this through sooner or later. You know what Mister Waverly will say. In the end, you can choose to talk to me or go to Psyche when we get back to New York."

"Go to hell!"

"You don't believe in it my friend. Why don't I start talking?"

"Why don't you just go away and leave…" Illya stopped, and with some vehemence, hurled his empty glass at the wall. It hit the wall and shattered into fragments. Napoleon stared at the broken glass for several seconds, then he grabbed his partner's shoulders and pulled him into a tight bear hug.

Illya resisted and tried to pull away, but Napoleon held him closer, and eventually he felt Illya stop struggling. He kept holding his friend close, and he whispered into Illya's ear, his voice slightly muffled.

"I'm here my friend, I'm not going anywhere. I'm here for you. You can relax, it's just the two of us. Come on Illya, let go. I'm here,"

Illya couldn't let go. He didn't know what to feel, or even how to feel. It seemed that he had gone through such a rollercoaster of emotion recently, he had burned himself out. He had no emotions left. He felt Napoleon reluctantly loose hold on him, and he smiled wanly.

"Sorry for swearing at you my friend."

"Hey you're overwrought. Forget it."

"I am not overwrought, I am perfectly normal, thank you."

Napoleon raised an eyebrow.

"Perfectly normal? Smashing a crystal glass against the wall so hard that you almost reduced it to powder? Telling me to go to hell? That might be normal for some people, but that is not normal for Illya Nikovitch Kuryakin. That is a highly emotional, stressed out Illya Kuryakin. In actual fact, a very rare animal indeed."

Illya glared at him. Napoleon felt desperately sorry for him.

"You need to try and…" he got no further, as Illya growled, and turned away. Napoleon sighed.

"I'm sorry Illya, I'm only trying to help. I'm going to miss that little girl myself. She must be feeling almost as bad. After all, she's not only lost you, she's lost both her mother and her father, and now her home as well."

There was a sudden noise from Illya, a sort of half a snort, half a choke, and he dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms around himself, almost as if he were trying to somehow derive some comfort that way. His shoulders began to shake violently. This time, as Napoleon's bear hug enfolded him, Illya finally let go, and wept desperately into the comforting arms of his partner.

April Dancer, still hovering in the galley, sipped at her hot chocolate and frowning, she made up her mind, and quickly made two more mugs. Peeping outside, she saw down the end of the plane her two best friends, both kneeling on the floor. Illya seemed to have collapsed forward, Napoleon was supporting him. There was no sound coming from over there now. She had had to start singing to herself a few moments ago in an attempt not to overhear Illya's heartbroken sobs. She knew he would be mortified if he knew that anyone but his partner had overheard. She did not approach immediately, but cleared her throat making a big thing of putting the mugs down on the table and closing the galley door behind her to give them time to dissemble.

"I made you both some hot chocolate." She told them. "I find that nothing helps me relax better at the end of a long and hard day. Here, you both look like you could use it. The pilot says we have about an hour to JfK."

Napoleon took the mugs and thanked her.

"April, I know it's my job, but under the circumstances, I think Waverly will understand. Will you call in for us?"

"Of course." She smiled and turned away, pulling out her communicator as she did so. Napoleon and Illya watched her, then Illya looked at his partner.

"You are going to have some explaining of your own to do Napoleon, with your family."

He nodded.

"I called Mister Waverly before we got on the plane. Hopefully he will have been to see my people already to explain and smooth the way a little…"

"You might still be in for a hard time, and for what?"

Illya gestured redundantly at his empty hands. His meaning was clear. Napoleon smiled.

"For you, Illya, that's what."

"I don't know how it would have been for me, Napoleon, if you hadn't insisted on coming with me on this…this trip. Thank you my friend. I didn't want you to come, to do that to your family, but I am very grateful to you for doing so anyway. I will owe both you and your family a lifelong debt of gratitude."

Napoleon smiled.

"Actually, Illya, my coming along wasn't altogether an unselfish decision."

"Really?"

Napoleon shook his head.

"I was scared of losing you. Good partners are very hard to find as it is, and Illyas are irreplaceable. I'm so sorry that this affair did not work out the way you were hoping. If anyone deserves to live happily ever after, it's you."

Illya replied with a noise that was half a laugh and half a sob.

"From what April tells me, the people back at HQ still think that you and I are dead too. How will they react when they see us again?"

Napoleon glanced down at his bandaged foot and the crutches that were leaning against the back of the chair.

"With me hobbling in on a gammy leg, and you just getting over pneumonia, we'll hardly be striding in impressively will we?"

Illya gave a lopsided smile, the sight of which made Napoleon's heart glad.

"Oh, I don't know, a ghost on crutches would probably make a much greater impression than a ghost without them."

Napoleon chuckled at the mental imagery and nodded.

"Come along my friend, we need to get ourselves strapped in. We're about to start coming in to land."

When they alighted from their aircraft, their arrival still shrouded in secrecy, they were met on the tarmac by Mark Slate and Alexander Waverly. Mark wordlessly hugged Illya, not knowing how else to convey to his friend the depth of his sorrow at the way things had yet again turned out for the Russian. Illya nodded sturdily.

"Thank you Mark, I will be okay."

Mark nodded, and gabbed his partner in a one handed hug, shaking Napoleon's hand at the same time. Waverly waited until the friends had finished greeting one another and he shook the hands of his two top agents. His hand gripped Illya's for a moment longer than normal, and he looked Illya in the eye.

"Doing the right thing is often the very hardest thing in the world to do, but in the long run you will never regret making the correct choice."

Illya nodded, his face momentarily revealing the raw emotion still just under the surface before he reined himself in once more.

"Yes sir. It's…it's…" He found himself unable to speak, but Waverly nodded to him.

"I know Mister Kuryakin, I do understand, really. For the time being you are going to have to learn to live with it I am afraid. Just try to keep in mind that nothing lasts forever. Situations change. That is your brightest hope."

Illya nodded, and they followed Mark out to the car and climbed in.

When the agents and their boss arrived at Del Floria's, Del Floria's assistant, Sammy Warwick grinned at them all from his place behind the steam press.

"Hey boy!" he said, with a smile at Illya as he activated the steam press and opened the door to headquarters. "I couldn't believe it when Bill told me everything. It really is good to see you safe, son."

Illya didn't feel up to smiling, but he gave the old man as genial a nod as he was able, and they trouped through into reception. The girl manning reception, raven haired Karen Yeates screeched in shock when she saw Solo and Kuryakin stroll in after Waverly. Her eyes opened wide and her eyebrows disappeared beneath her overhanging fringe. Solo rested his right crutch against the edge of the desk and held out his hand.

"Hello again Miss Yeates. Perhaps we can have our badges now?"

"Oh, y.y yes, of course!" she stammered. "Gosh, I.I'm glad to see you back sir…both of you sirs…" she gasped with a glance at Illya. Waverly accepted his badge and passed through with barely a glance at the girl beyond a pleasant `Hello', and Mark and April made sure to follow smoothly as though the presence once more of Solo and Kuryakin was the most normal thing in the world. Solo smiled widely as he regained his crutch and limped through the inner doors. Illya said nothing. He merely nodded to her and passed by. Karen gazed at the closed inner door.

"Wow, they're alive! They're alive!"

Unable to stand the amazing truth on her own, she picked up the phone and dialed the extension of a friend in translations.

"Corinne, you'll never guess who has just come in through reception…"

The journey through the corridors of UNCLE was an experience to say the least. It might have amused Illya if he had been in the mood for it. Everywhere they went they encountered incredulous stares, screams and screeches, dropped files and people colliding with walls, doors and each other as their open-mouthed shock made them forget what they were supposed to be doing or where they were. Two young women from the secretarial pool actually fainted at the sight of them.

"Mister Waverly, I get the impression that you did not broadcast to the staff that we were alive. Everyone seems rather shocked!"

"That is quite correct Mister Solo. Come along. I promised doctor Simpson that I would deliver you both in person."

Illya was kept in medical for twenty-four hours whilst the medical staff satisfied themselves that he was recovering adequately from his sickness. Whilst Illya was being kept confined in medical, Napoleon Solo, having stayed by Illya's side thus far was not about to abandon him now. No one could blame him. The entire staff at HQ had learned by now that Solo and Kuryakin were an unbreakable team who would even pass through the fire for one another if need be; and on this occasion they had done just that. Having almost literally been to hell and back, Mister Waverly was not about to make anything harder for them, and he sat in his office and picked up his phone.

"Miss Rogers, have my chopper pick me up in five minutes on the helipad up top will you? Tell Mister Solo to remain in the building until I return."

"Yes sir. Where are you going?"

"To speak to the Solo family in Napoleon's behalf. It is time for me to do my job."

"Yes sir."

When Napoleon down in medical heard from Lisa Rogers that Waverly was on his way to speak to his family, no doubt to set the record straight and make them understand why the cruel deceit had been so necessary, he felt very relieved. He sat back in his chair, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief. Illya, still fighting his own inner turmoil, noticed him. He wiped his own eyes and tried to smile.

"You and I are going to ruin our reputation as tough section two agents if we keep letting our feelings leak down our faces like this."

Napoleon nodded.

"How tough do we need to be? We came back from the dead. Right now those guys out there think we are just short of being supermen."

Illya laughed ironically.

"Right now I feel far from super. Napoleon, I miss that little girl. Do you know the very last thing she said to me before she and her dedushka left?"

"What did she say?"

"She told me she was going to think of me as though I was her new papa. She asked me if she could call me papa from now on. I said of course she could…"

"...and then they left?"

Illya nodded. Napoleon wiped his eyes again, and when he looked up, he saw tears on Illya's cheeks, but Illya didn't seem to care this time.

"Somehow Napoleon, thinking of her as my daughter…helps in a way. She has no idea what she has given to me."

His partner smiled gently.

"I think perhaps she does. That little girl was quite extraordinary for her age. And her love for you was quite real too. You didn't see her in Tarasov's office when she first learned that she was going to have to leave you behind. How are you doing with it all my friend?"

Illya shrugged uncertainly.

"My heart is again broken into a million tiny pieces, but I think it has not been whole for a long time. If I ever get her back for good, I think she will heal me. For now, my friend, we do not give up the fight. Now I fight for her. I rid the world of THRUSH for Katiya. She has become my reason for being. My own little girl." He looked up at his partner, more tears flowing.

"I think Katiya and my little Dimitri would have liked one another. I never got the chance to tell her about him."

"Well, that is your goal then. The day you are reunited in person, you can tell her about her cousin Dimitri."

Illya shook his head.

"No, not cousin. Not anymore. Her brother Dimitri."

April had been off on another secret mission of her own. She had been flying back and forth between many UNCLE offices, largely to ensure that any THRUSHes that might be on her scent would become thoroughly confused, but finally she had the precious item she had been waiting for. She had had the idea for it in Russia, when Napoleon had explained to her about Illya and his newfound niece, and their impending separation. It had taken a lot of work or organize and make safe, and it had been even more important that Napoleon and Illya were well settled back into routine before she dropped this on them.

Napoleon's reunion with his family had been touching in the extreme. Waverly had brought them back to headquarters, the entire family, and they had all crowded into medical to see the miracle for themselves. Illya had been enfolded into their embraces, and, a demonstrative family, their open weeping for joy had given the Russian an opportunity to release some of his own pent up emotions without feeling embarrassed or awkward.

They had been angry at first, how could they have been otherwise when they learned about the deception? but the assurance that it had been the only way to guarantee the two men's survival had softened the impact considerably; and they had begun to realize, from the redness around the older man's eyes, that none of this had been easy for him either. When they returned home, they took Napoleon and Illya with them for a very well earned leave. It was at the Solo family homestead, sitting on a gate overlooking a flock of fluffy sheep that April finally caught up with Illya. Napoleon was in the small enclosure, feeding the pet lambs, and Illya was simply watching him. His face calm and serene, but still with the same undercurrent of sadness behind his eyes.

"April. What are you doing here?"

"I have something for you, Illya. With Napoleon's support and Mister Waverly's blessing, we have managed to arrange a sort of…pen friend arrangement for you. It will have to go through several UNCLE offices in order to keep THRUSH from intercepting it and learning something they should not, but we have taken every precaution."

"Okay." Illya replied, wondering what she was talking about, guessing but hardly daring to hope. April smiled.

"There is a little girl somewhere out there who is desperately missing her papa. When she writes to you she will call herself Lili. It is not her new name, by the way, but it is the name that you will call her in your letters to her. Mister Waverly will hand her letter to you in person, and when you reply to her, you will hand the letter to him in a plain, sealed envelope. She understands how important it is that she says nothing in any of her letters that might give away her location, so please don't ask her that kind of question in case she forgets. Who knows when any of our couriers will be intercepted?"

April opened her jacket and pulled out a plain white envelope with Papa written on the front in slightly shaky capital letters. Illya stared at April, open-mouthed.

"This was your idea wasn't it?"

She smiled at her friend.

"I have to go. Mark is going to need rescuing in about three hours' time. Give Napoleon my love. Enjoy your letter."

He leaned down and she kissed his nose, then hurried away. Dumbfounded, Illya stared down at the letter in his hands. A letter from his little Katiya? He would get regular letters from her, and he could send letters to her? Stifling the urge to leap down from his perch on the gate and start dancing around the field, he opened the envelope and drew out a pink piece of paper.

"Dear Papa," He started to read…

THE END…?


End file.
